


In Hoc Signo Vinces

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 'arcane sexual bonding rituals', A-historical initiation rites, Alchemy, An Amount of Identity Porn, Blindfolds, Bondage, Chabouillet's power kink, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Javert's submission kink, M/M, Madeleine and Valjean do not have quite the same agenda, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Questionable prefecture sex cults, The early career of the Cabinet Particulier, aka the weird occult pwp, offstage blowjobs, poor uses for ritual knives, so many levels of dubcon, surprisingly not knife play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: When Monsieur the Secretary Chabouillet summons M. Madeleine and his new Inspector to fulfill an old Prefectural tradition, Madeleine expects it to be a simple matter of ceremony. The reality is something much different, but Madeleine is in no position to refuse, and Javert's devotion to his superiors is strangely intoxicating...





	1. Day the First

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kainosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/gifts).



> _For Kainosite: Valjean's dilemmas with Javert also become infinitely more distressing once Javert's superiors are involved. When the Secrétaire tells him about arcane sexual bonding rituals between mayors and their newly assigned police inspectors, is there any way to get out of it without blowing his cover?_
> 
>  
> 
> I was so not planning to write porn for this exchange, but the moment I read this particular prompt, I said to myself, Ah, of course, a dubcon identity-porn pwp inspired by the seventeenth century manuscript, _The Chymical Wedding_ , which led to... this. I pulled some inspiration from a couple of your other prompts, and I hope you'll like what I came up with! Sometime when I don't have so many WIPs, I'd also kind of like to do a remix from Javert's POV.
> 
> You had a ton of awesome prompts - maybe I'll write some more of them in the future. I'm just going to put a blanket disclaimer at the beginning that I've never published an explicit fic before; major thanks to my beta, all remaining errors are my own.

The carriage rocked to and fro as it trundled down the road, its gentle rhythm at odds with the tension stretched between the two occupants. Each sitting opposite the other, and in far corners of the car, the odd pair had spent most of the journey hitherto staring out his own respective window; anything, rather than meet eyes with his traveling companion.

Madeleine was especially ill at ease. Surreptitiously, he rubbed his palms against his trousers; he was fairly certain they had not stopped sweating since the arrival of the letter from Paris that morning. The compulsion came over him to again reread that missive which burned in his pocket like a brand, but he shoved the feeling aside. It would be the third time he read it since departing Montreuil-sur-Mer, and it would look strange for a magistrate to be so unsettled by what was surely no more than a simple matter of ceremony. The last thing he needed was to give Javert more reason to suspect him.

At that thought, he did glance up, just for a moment. It was Javert himself who was seated across the carriage, his brow furrowed and jaw set as he stared at the passing countryside. An Inspector’s frock coat was wrapped snugly around his narrow frame, keeping out the chill of the damp spring air. Madeleine eyed that coat with some dislike; therein lay the impetus for their whole journey, the seed which had rooted the thorns he now was entangled in. It was a week, one week since the newly-appointed Inspector Javert had arrived in his office, and Madeleine’s comfortable existence had upended itself.

He remembered all too well how it happened. It was early yet, the factory having only just opened its doors for the day, and M. Madeleine was seated at his desk in the room overlooking the workshop. He was in the midst of approving a few expenditures when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Madeleine called, only to feel the color drain from his face as who should appear but none other than one Police Officer Javert. Of course, Javert was no newcomer to the town; he had been stationed in Montreuil-sur-Mer for some weeks as a police spy, and Madeleine had always treated him with the same courtesy and genial regard he offered every other citizen. However, to see him there, present in his own office, caused a shudder of foreboding to run its course through him. Madeleine was disquieted; in his breast, the part of him which was Jean Valjean shifted in uneasy hibernation.

“Monsieur Mayor,” Javert announced himself. “I ask that you forgive the intrusion. I went to the Mairie, but was told I would find you here.”

Madeleine nodded. “As a man of business, I must divide my time between the town hall and my factory - I regret that you were inconvenienced. What may I do for you, Officer?”

It was not unbeknownst to Madeleine that Javert was no friend of his. Indeed, it seemed that the bloodhound of an officer was one of the only inhabitants in town to still afford him open mistrust; Madeleine was often conscious of Javert’s eyes upon him, a restless and oppressive gaze that was constantly probing, searching for cracks in his venerable facade. Still, the municipal police had their part to play in keeping the peace, and respectability was a standard Madeleine had learned to bear. Javert had no cause to question him, and Madeleine was determined to give him none.

In the office, Javert bowed stiffly. “I bear a letter of appointment from Monsieur Chabouillet, the Secretary to the Minister of State,” he said. “I have been made Inspector of the police in Montreuil, and wished to make myself available to you at once, as is protocol.”

The news eased a fraction of Madeleine’s consternation. “May I see this letter?” he inquired.

Without further comment, Javert withdrew a piece of fine stationery from his coat pocket and handed it over. Madeleine scanned its contents perfunctorily and nodded in approval. Javert had been promoted, and sought to notify the presiding government official; that was only right. There were no words of condemnation, no accusations against his person, and while the set of Javert’s shoulders suggested he was not entirely pleased by the situation, there was nothing else he could rightfully say. Madeleine breathed easily for the first time since his door had opened.

“Everything seems to be in order,” he said, returning the letter. “I trust you can see to your duties beginning immediately?”

Javert bowed again. “I shall endeavor not to intrude on the Mayor’s time.”

That was also right, and as the Inspector took his leave, Madeleine expected to hear no more on the matter. As it so happened, he did not, and so enjoyed a quiet week of work and solitude. His peace of mind lasted through the weekend, right up until Javert again paid him a visit.

Where he sat in the carriage, Madeleine chewed at his lip. In his anxiety, it was tempting to rub his fingers over the uneven tissue of his wrists, but he did not dare, not with Javert sitting so close. Instead, he gave in to the lesser of two evils, the impulse to reread the message the Inspector had delivered to him that very morning.

“This is a matter which concerns both of us,” the Inspector had said. “I too received a letter.”

The words, while not the denouncement Madeleine feared, had inspired in him a different sort of dis-ease; his heart beat erratically then, and it did so again as his fingers smoothed the creases from the parchment.

The message in question was written on paper quite as fine as the first, and was addressed to him personally.

 _Monsieur Madeleine_ , it read.

_I have for some time been of a mind to write you, and yet only now do I find I have an excuse. It is my belief that you and I could be kindred spirits of a sort, each of us an upstanding official in his own sphere, and each of us a man of business; word of your black glass factory has reached the ears of Paris, while I myself operate a modest establishment of public baths on the Rue Vauxhall._

_The subject which I would discuss with you is one of a sensitive nature; for that reason, I hesitate to include too much in the way of detail. Suffice it to say that it concerns the appointment of my_ _protégé to the position of Inspector; there is a certain ritual, the performance of which is customary within the ruling government, and as the Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, your participation is of the utmost importance. I have therefore penned instructions to Inspector Javert to travel at once to Paris, and would request you do the same. There is a place outside the city which he will recognize, where the both of you may lodge for the week. I have no doubt that Monsieur’s advisors can see to the operation of the Mairie in your absence._

_I trust in your willingness to comply, and I look forward to our meeting._

_Affectionately,_

_Chabouillet, Secretary_

The signature was made with a particular flourish on the _C_ , nearly bordering on dainty in its composition. It contrasted sharply with the letter’s tone, which for all its politeness and general air of circumspection still made one thing very clear: the Secretary’s request was in reality an order, and to decline the invitation would certainly lead to unwanted questions, questions for which Madeleine had no good answer. A clever man would not need to do much digging to discover that Madeleine had no background. A bit more digging would turn up his papers as false, or missing, and then it would be revealed to all that Madeleine was made of straw, having little more substance than the paper in his hand.

“Something the matter?” the Inspector drawled, breaking the silence he had kept for some hours.

Returning the letter to his pocket, Madeleine smiled thinly. “It is simply fatigue,” he said, wondering just how drawn his face appeared. “It has been a long day of driving.”

Javert did not reply, merely studied him with his piercing eyes, and Madeleine tried not to shift under the scrutiny. He reminded himself that he was well-cloaked in propriety, but Javert’s stare and slight upward turn of the mouth disturbed him, for it was the look of a wolf who had caught the scent of its prey. The farther they drove from Madeleine’s provincial stronghold, the easier it became to imagine he was being led into a trap, where the wolfhound might at last close its jaws around his throat.

Day was turning to twilight when they arrived at their destination. At first, Madeleine was uncomprehending; they were, after all, some leagues yet from Paris, and the countryside through which they traveled was largely unsettled, occupied only by a smattering of small hamlets and farmland. However, as the carriage lurched to a halt, Javert sat forward with a keen glimmer in his eye, and Madeleine followed his gaze into the crepuscular gloom.

They were stopped in front of a copse of trees, within which was the silhouette of a _manoir_. No light shone through the windows, and yet Javert was disembarking.

“Is this the place?” Madeleine asked, surveying the dark house with apprehension.

“It is,” came the terse reply.

Madeleine stepped out of the carriage, frowning. “It appears quite deserted.”

The look which Javert gave him then was unreadable. “I have been honored with an invitation here on a few separate occasions. I can assure you, Monsieur, it is not deserted.”

Without any further explanation, he took hold of both the Mayor’s luggage and his own, and began to carry it up towards the house. His heavy boot heels fell with a crunch on the gravel drive, a sound which did nothing to calm the racing of Madeleine’s heart. He was flustered; there was no telling what awaited him inside that place. However, to stand dumbfounded in the street as night fell was not an option, either. He paid the driver, with further instruction to return on the seventh day hence, and then Madeleine turned and followed Javert up the drive.

He found the Inspector at the door, waiting patiently.

“Are you certain there is anyone here?” Madeleine inquired, looking skeptically at the dark windows. His question was answered for him when the door was pulled open from within, light spilling out onto the stoop.

“Ah, Javert, excellent,” said the man at the door. “And you must be the Mayor Madeleine - it is an honor, Monsieur. Please, come in.”

Javert stepped over the threshold before Madeleine could offer to take back his bag. He followed after the Inspector somewhat reluctantly into the _salle basse_ , a large entry hall lit from above by candle-bearing chandeliers. Bemused, Madeleine looked around; the windows were all covered from the inside by weighty black drapes.

The man who had admitted them stood at Javert’s side; he had a young face and dark hair, and he was holding Javert by the hand, gesturing intently with the other as he spoke. Madeleine almost went to warn him, for Javert had never struck him as much caring for touch, and yet the expression on the Inspector’s face was one not of offense but of amusement, and the contrast between it and Madeleine’s expectations stunned him into silence.

“- and Monsieur Périer is upstairs in the _salle haute_ with Monsieur Prefect. Anglès is here on holiday - lucky bastard.” Turning to Madeleine, the man smiled warmly. “Henri Gisquet at your service, Monsieur. I am the protégé to Monsieur Casimir Périer, the esteemed banker and member of the Chamber of Deputies.”

“Jean Madeleine,” the magistrate introduced himself, shaking Gisquet’s hand. Though he did not know what was happening, at least Gisquet did not seem to regard him with the same suspicion as did Javert. From a neighboring hall issued the sound of muffled voices, and Madeleine was left to wonder how many occupants the strange manor house held.

“Doubtless Monsieur Mayor is tired,” said Gisquet, interrupting his train of thought. “There is a room down the hall where you may retire. Javert, I believe the Secretary is awaiting you in his chamber.”

Javert grimaced slightly, as if his next words left a sour taste in his mouth. “I am afraid I will have to disappoint him - my immediate duty is to see Mayor Madeleine settled.”

Madeleine opened his mouth to protest, for he would much rather that Javert not accompany him, but Gisquet spoke before he could.

“Fear not, Inspector,” the man laughed. “The Manoir Comte-Anglès has staff to see to that sort of thing.” Turning, he called out, “Monsieur Nay, to the _salle_ , if you please.”

A moment passed, and then a sprightly figure emerged from the adjacent hall. If Gisquet was young to Madeleine, this winsome creature was positively youthful; he could not have been more than his early twenties. A sweep of blond hair and wide blue eyes gave his features a quality not unlike that of a painted cherub.

“One of our charming page boys,” Gisquet said conspiratorially. “And well-trained in his line of service. I wouldn’t mind having him in my own employ, if I may be honest.”

“Monsieur Gisquet,” Nay said, dipping his head.

“Jules-Ernest, excellent.” Gisquet indicated where Madeleine stood waiting uncomfortably. “This is the Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, Monsieur Madeleine. He has only just arrived with Inspector Javert. The Inspector has duties of his own to attend to, so you will see to the good Mayor’s needs tonight. Ensure he is comfortable - he has been traveling all day, so render whatever assistance he requires.”

Nay looked Madeleine up and down. “Of course. I’ll take his bag, Inspector.”

At that, Madeleine at last found his voice. “Ah, no, that will not be necessary,” he said, all but grabbing his luggage from Javert. “I can carry it myself, I assure you.”

The page looked as though it was all the same to him. “This way, then, Monsieur,” he said. “You will rejoin the Inspector in the morning.”

If that was meant to be a comfort, it was lost on Madeleine. At least Javert was no longer fixated on him; the Mayor followed M. Nay, and the Inspector turned back to Gisquet, who had not stopped talking.

“The Secretary must be looking forward to this little pantomime - he has been in a state all day, knowing you were coming.”

Nay turned into a corridor; as Madeleine went to follow, he heard Javert’s cool tones reply, “I shall not keep him waiting, then. Goodnight, Henri.”

The corridor, like the rest of the _manoir_ , was stone. Torches lining the walls illuminated a number of doors on either side. M. Nay was opening the third to the right with a golden key.

The door led into a small room which was quiet, windowless, and occupied by two beds and a chest of drawers. Madeleine set his bag down on the latter of these before taking to the mattress farthest in the corner. He sighed, the weight of his predicament almost crushing in the way it brought itself to bear on his shoulders. He hoped his anxiety did not show, but Nay, who had seated himself on the edge of the other bed, was regarding him with a slight pucker to his lips.

Sure enough, before another moment passed, Nay cocked his head to the side and said, “Monsieur looks very tense. You must allow me to assist you.”

Madeleine blinked. “It is nothing,” he replied. “I am just weary from the journey.”

Leaning forward, Nay smiled prettily and said, “Surely there is _something_ I may do to take Monsieur’s mind off his troubles.”

Madeleine considered this. “Well,” he said, “I wonder about this place - the Secretary’s letter told me very little about where, exactly, I was being invited. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

Nay looked momentarily nonplussed, but then he said, “If that is Monsieur’s wish.”

He sprawled on the mattress, ruffling his blond curls. “We are... half an hour from Paris, perhaps a bit more. This is a manor house belonging to the Prefect, Monsieur Comte-Anglès. The Prefecture required a venue for their ceremonies which was discreet, and the Prefect was happy to provide. After all, Monsieur, the common people of France... Well, meaning no disrespect, but they might not understand all the intimacies required in the operation of a government body.”

Madeleine nodded as though he had some idea what the youth was talking about. “I come from humble beginnings myself,” he said. “There is much I find I am still learning about our fine bureaucracy.” Not the least of which, he thought, was whatever manner of ceremony required a private property well outside the city limits for its performance.

“Monsieur Mayor should sleep,” advised the page boy. “Unless there is anything else needing my attention?” He put a peculiar emphasis on his words, as though he expected the answer to be ‘yes’, but Madeleine could think of nothing he wanted save to fade, unnoticed, into the background.

“Thank you,” said Madeleine, “but no. You should sleep as well, I am sure you have been hard at work.”

In the darkness after the lights were doused, Madeleine lay awake for a long time, uneasy in a bed which was not his own. And the very moment he fell into a restless slumber, he was transported, no longer outside of Paris, or even in Montreuil-sur-Mer, but back in the _bagne_ of Toulon. Bound and fettered in that nightmarish dream, Madeleine slipped away until he was not called Madeleine at all, but answered to Jean Valjean, or as was more often the case, to ‘convict’.

In the dream, he was chained hand, neck, and foot; around him were the innumerable multitudes of men sharing that dismal fate, each of them wearing the same blood red smock. It was dark and swelteringly hot, the smell of sweat and salt a constant presence. Though he himself could see nothing, he was aware of being watched by some invisible, judgemental behemoth. It could name all the faults of his soul, counted out like the fall of the lash, and he quailed beneath its gaze.

Then amidst the darkness, Valjean beheld a light. It was faint at first, but growing brighter. Breathless, desperate, he struggled forward as much as the chains would allow. The light would set him free, if only he could reach it.

The other captive wretches had also seen the light, and shared in his epiphany of escape. There was a great surging, a tsunami of humanity urgently pressing forward, and Valjean felt himself caught in the swell. He was strong, but in the chaos it was impossible to know whether he made any headway; up looked no different than down, forward no different than back. The chains chafed and bit at his skin, and Valjean floundered that much more as his wounds stung and burned.

After what felt like an eternity, the dream ended, fading into the nothingness of unconsciousness. There was no telling whether he had ever succeeded in his quest for salvation, or if he was still in the _bagne_ , struggling helplessly in the dark.


	2. Day the Second

When he woke in the morning, Madeleine was gone. In his place beneath the covers lay Jean Valjean, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and his heart racing in his chest. Everything felt wrong. As he sat up, hunting for his clothes, Valjean fought to shake free of the feeling, but to no avail. His very skin seemed as though it did not belong to him, as though it too were a disguise, another cog in his great subterfuge. Valjean had not been so fretful since his early days in Montreuil, when every day threatened him with discovery. Now it seemed that fate hounded him once again.

Rising, Valjean brushed his hair aside and pulled on a dress shirt. In the other bed, the page boy, Nay, was still soundly asleep. Valjean moved quietly so as not to disturb him; briefly, he considered slipping out the front door and bolting from the premises before anyone could come looking for him, but he quashed the idea before it took hold. So far, he had gone unquestioned. If he ran, Javert would be sure to take it as a sign of a guilty conscience, at the very least. It was wiser to play along for the time being.

Donning his waistcoat and tails restored some of Valjean’s sense of security; it made him look the part, even if he did not feel it. Tightening his cravat, Valjean gave his lapels a nervous tug and then sidled out into the corridor. Behind him, Nay turned over in his sleep, mumbling incomprehensibly.

The corridor was empty. Valjean gave the other doors a cursory glance as he passed, speculating whether each concealed a room like his own, and how many were occupied.

It was not difficult to find his way back to the _salle basse_ , which was utterly unchanged from the night before. The candles were shorter in their sockets, and that was all the evidence there was to tell him time had, in fact, passed. The hall was as deserted as the corridor, so Valjean took the opportunity to cross to the window, where he pulled back the edge of a curtain. Outside, a grey morning was dawning. It had to have been very early, but it was a comfort to know the night was over. He had survived the first day. He merely had to make it five more.

Footsteps behind him caused Valjean to drop the edge of the curtain as though burned. He straightened, scrambling for calm even as he felt iron at his wrists; his nightmare had not entirely dissipated with the dawn, and neither had the conviction that he was mere moments from discovery.

The voice which cut through the quiet did little to dispel that notion.

“Monsieur Mayor,” said Javert.

Valjean composed himself and turned around. Standing in front of an ancillary hallway was Inspector Javert and a man Valjean did not recognize. By the air of dignified authority the newcomer exuded, Valjean could only surmise it to be the Secretary, Chabouillet.

“Good morning,” said Valjean, inclining his head.

“It is, isn’t it?” agreed the Secretary. “André Chabouillet. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Valjean forced a smile, walking forward. The Secretary stood with his hand on Javert’s arm, but as Valjean approached, he offered it to shake instead. Valjean made it a point to lessen the power of his grip with others; his strength was too distinctive, too memorable, and anyway, he had no desire to crush another’s fingers. Still, in his affected state, Valjean took Chabouillet’s hand with a somewhat stronger hold than was necessary. The Secretary did not appear pained, but his face registered surprise, and then a slow smile stole over his features.

“Jean Madeleine,” Valjean said to fill the silence. The Secretary’s smile was unnerving.

“Yes,” Chabouillet nodded. “Javert has told me all about you.”

Valjean blanched, recovering himself a moment later. “Has he?” he asked, feigning polite interest.

“He says...” the Secretary began with a sideways glance at the Inspector, “that you are too lenient by far with troublemakers, but that the citizenry hold you in esteem, and the town prospers because of it.”

Taken aback, Valjean turned to Javert. Had the Inspector really said that about him?

Javert was staring at a fixed point somewhere over Valjean’s shoulder. “I said no more than is a matter of public record. Monsieur Mayor’s acclaim with the working class is readily verified, and it is my professional assessment that his influence on the criminally-inclined is at best -”

“Yes, Javert.” The look the Secretary gave him was fond. Turning to Valjean, he added, “He has already given me this speech once.”

Javert cleared his throat and stopped talking. He was still studiously avoiding Valjean’s gaze, and Valjean got the impression that Javert was as discomfited by the conversation as he was.

“Though as it happens,” Chabouillet continued, gracefully ignoring the mutual embarrassment of his companions, “the Inspector’s point is as good a segue as any into the purpose behind this week’s gathering.”

At that, Javert’s expression went carefully blank, and he drew himself to his full height. Even indoors, he wore his frock coat, and so he cut an imposing figure where he stood beside the Secretary. Valjean attempted to reconcile the formal, correct officer in front of him with the man who only seconds ago had seemed nearly chagrined, and found he could not.

Chabouillet continued to speak without acknowledging the change in the undercurrent of the room, though he was surely not oblivious to it. “Monsieur Madeleine, I told you in my letter that I had thought of writing you before. My sources sing your praises. They say you use the profits from your factory to build schools and hospitals. They say you are a pious man, who gives alms wheresoever you go. I have even heard that you were offered the Legion of Honor, but that you declined it.”

“Industry is its own reward,” Valjean said quietly. “As is generosity. There can be no honor greater than that of helping others.”

“Very admirable,” said Chabouillet. “You are a man who knows his duty, that is plain, and a modest one to boot. Yet as Javert points out, you possess a certain deficit in the strict enforcement of our legal ways. Well, it is to be expected - you are a businessman and a politician, not a policeman. That is where the Inspector comes in - to fill the deficit. This man,” Chabouillet went on, “is a shining example of excellence in the police. He has been stationed in Montreuil-sur-Mer for some time, so perhaps you are already acquainted with his work?”

Valjean’s throat worked as he formulated an adequate response. “We are somewhat acquainted, yes,” he said.

The Secretary put an arm across Javert’s back, drawing him closer. “Inspector Javert has been instrumental in solving an uncounted number of cases - murders, robberies, serious crimes of that ilk. I met him when he was merely an adjunct-guard at Toulon Prison, you know. Even then, his potential was apparent. I made him my personal protégé, and he has never disappointed. One day he may work under me in the First Division.”

Valjean could scarcely suppress a small gulp at that. First Division, First Bureau was the highest order of the French police, and Chabouillet sat at the head of it. If the man were ever to learn of Madeleine’s true origins, he had the power to obliterate him completely. The means to that end was standing rigidly at his side, not quite smiling at the praise.

“Monsieur Inspector’s work has always been commendable,” Valjean agreed. Chabouillet’s fingers tightened against Javert’s side, and Valjean watched as Javert’s eyes closed, remaining that way for too long to be a blink.

“I am glad you think so.” The Secretary’s hand slipped lower as he continued, “That is, after all, the crux of it - a Mayor and his Inspector must be well-matched if a municipality is to be successful. It has always been that way. The Mayor is the backbone of the town, and the Inspector his arm. It is necessary that they be united, like two sides of the same coin. Over the centuries, we have developed our little ways of ensuring the bond between superior and subordinate is a strong one.”

Valjean was diverted; the Secretary’s hand had by then slid indecorously low, settling upon Javert’s hip. It might have been an accident, a lapse brought about by distraction, had not Valjean been able to see the slight creases left by Chabouillet’s fingers in the material of Javert’s trousers. The man’s grip was firm, not slack, and it stood to reason therefore that Chabouillet had every intention of touching Javert in so forward a manner. Stranger still was Javert himself, who looked the closest to relaxed Valjean had ever seen him. A number of the lines in his face had softened, and with the exception of a faint color on his cheeks, he seemed unbothered to be held thusly.

“Monsieur?”

Javert was quirking an eyebrow, and Valjean realized with a start that he had lost the thread of conversation.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am afraid I missed that last.”

Looking at him levelly, Javert explained, “Monsieur the Secretary was just saying that we will have our privacy for the performance of the final rite.”

“Oh.” Valjean nodded with all of Madeleine’s self-assurance and none of his own. “That is well.”

“It is a sacred act,” Chabouillet declared. “Voyeurs have their place, but not in this. You are both honorable men, there is no need to have another on hand to confirm the Mayor has consummated his claim.”

Hastily, Valjean turned his choke into a cough. The Secretary’s choice of words was unfortunate, to say the least. Then Valjean glanced again at Javert and the deepening flush creeping up the Inspector’s neck, and he had the sinking feeling that perhaps the Secretary had not misspoken at all.

Suddenly, Chabouillet’s hand upon Javert’s waist took on a different connotation. It was possessive. It was intimate. If the two men were more than patron and protégé, or rather, if their contractual relationship demanded more than what was strictly professional, and the Mayor was expected to be a part of it... Or perhaps he was assuming too much.

Never had Valjean been so grateful for the years spent acting a part, for it kept his voice steady as he said, “I think I require some further instruction on my role in this.”

“Not to worry, Monsieur.” It was Javert who answered, and Valjean twitched at the sound of his voice. “But the details are, I am afraid, only to be shared with the initiated. You will have to wait until after the opening ceremony before we can tell you any more.”

“Ah.” Valjean cleared his throat. “And, when will that be?”

Chabouillet withdrew a gold pocket watch from within his coat and checked the time. “Tonight,” he said. “After dinner. I confess it is all a bit theatrical, but that is what comes with two hundred years of tradition. You will enter through there -” and he gestured to a pair of doors decorated with ornate carvings, “- to join us at the appointed hour.”

Valjean nodded; more and more it appeared that he had ingratiated himself with some sort of cult, but there was no help for it. It would have raised suspicion enough to turn down the Secretary’s invitation. It would do all the more so to back out now that he was there.

The Secretary clapped his hands. “It is decided, then. Monsieur, take the afternoon to do as you will. You may make use of Ernest if you like, I am certain he is close at hand. Javert, come - let us see if Anglès has an answer to my proposal yet.”

The Inspector followed Chabouillet without hesitation, but even as he walked his eyes did not leave Valjean. Would he use the ceremonies as an excuse to uncover Valjean’s identity? As the echoing footsteps died away, the sound continued to ring in Valjean’s ears. The Mayor found himself walking a difficult tightrope; should he be found out, he would be worse than ruined, but should he make it through the week, he could perhaps return to the Mairie with the Secretary himself on his side, and then Javert would be truly unable to denounce him. That risk had to be worth the taking.

With the afternoon his own, Valjean took immediate pains to make himself scarce. He did not return to his room; the chances of Monsieur Nay being there were too great, and Valjean did not think that was a confrontation he could stomach. The Secretary’s idle comment had called to mind some of the page boy’s words the night before, and Valjean was afraid he now had a much clearer notion of the services Jules-Ernest was known to offer than he had had at the time. It was not something he wanted any part of with a man young enough to be his son.

Instead, Valjean’s attention turned elsewhere. At first, it was enough merely to find a deserted alcove in which to secret himself. When no-one came seeking him out, he grew bolder; some exploration revealed a library in the west wing of the manor, and like a moth to a flame, Valjean wandered through the stacks of dusty books. There were a great variety of titles, more than a few of which bordered on occult in their subject matter. He supposed that alchemy and hermeticism might be in fashion elsewhere in the world, but it was a revelation to find any evidence of such texts in France. Was he to believe that lauded, God-fearing men also dabbled in the black arts on the side? It sounded far-fetched, yet the proof was before him.

He was part of the way through a manuscript with illuminations depicting a marriage between the sun and moon when a dinner bell began tolling somewhere else in the manor house. Sighing, Valjean replaced the vellum-bound book back on the shelf. Left to his own devices, the _manoir_ was not so intimidating a place, but as Valjean made his way back to the front hall, he was joined by others spilling out of rooms and passageways, and he was forcibly reminded that he could not afford to drop his guard even for a minute. How many of them, he wondered, were there for the same purpose he was?

Opposite the front entry, a great pair of double doors dominated the wall of the _salle basse_ , inset into the limestone. They were carved with the figure of a tree, the trunk of which was emblazoned with a cross and a dove. Above the doors was an inscription reading, _In Hoc Signo Vinces_ ; ‘In This Sign, Conquer’.

It was before the doors that people were gathering, and Valjean stood amongst them, doing his utmost not to draw attention to himself. He surveyed the heads for any sign of Javert, but the Inspector was not there. That was a cold sort of reassurance as the doors opened seemingly of their own accord.

Allowing himself to be swept along, Valjean passed through the opening and into the chamber beyond. As he crossed the threshold, he felt the thrill of gooseflesh prickle along his arms. The crowd parted to reveal rows of long dining tables, which were laden with candlesticks for light and silver place settings. The room was filled with the warm glow of beeswax; what windows there were were covered by drapes, just as they were in the rest of the manor. There was no chance of any passersby catching a glimpse of the assembly, or their activities.

Several people were already seated at tables; it did not take Valjean long to pick the Inspector’s grim visage out from the rest. The man could only have been waiting, aware that Valjean would have to present himself if he wanted to keep up appearances. Naturally, Javert’s seat of choice was alongside the Secretary, who was just as quick to spot Valjean. He hailed him, and so Valjean had no choice but to assume the friendliest countenance he could muster before striding over to the table. Chabouillet waved at the chair opposite the Inspector, and Valjean sat.

“Monsieur Mayor,” said Chabouillet. “You have had an entertaining day, I trust?”

Valjean nodded. “A bit of reading,” he said. “You have a most unusual collection here.”

“Ha,” said the Secretary. “I suppose I had not noticed. My tastes are usually for other amusements.” He declared this with a slight glance at Javert that made Valjean’s cheeks burn, but the Inspector was unfazed.

“Monsieur Secretary has a certain love of gossip,” said Javert calmly. “He is not a political man himself, but being here permits him to remain informed. It is a practical medium.”

Chabouillet tutted, but before he could say anything further, a hush fell over the room. People took to their chairs, turning their heads toward a portal in the corner from which Valjean could make out the faint strains of music. He was on the verge of asking what was happening, when M. Nay strode in through the opening.

The page boy was dressed in a sky blue habit. He was followed by several others, all equally youthful and attired in the same fashion. They fanned out across the front of the room, before bending down on one knee. As they knelt, another silhouette appeared in the opening. Valjean beheld a man nearer to his own age, comely, and with wavy, fair hair.

Catching Valjean’s eye, Javert murmured, “That is the Prefect, Monsieur Comte-Anglès.” His entire posture spoke of open admiration, and Valjean took another look at the man who had authority over all the police of Paris.

Anglès wore a snow-white habit. He entered slowly, scanning the crowd and smiling as he met eyes with his guests. When eventually the Prefect came to a stop, it was in front of the centermost table, beside where Nay knelt passively on the floor.

“Messieurs,” said Anglès. “Another year, another occasion for us to gather here. I understand there are a number of changes in our ranks - promotions to be celebrated, newcomers to welcome into the fold. But of course, you are hungry. Let this wait until after dinner.” He clapped his hands. “Boys.”

At his commandment, the pages stood, vanishing back into the portal from whence they had arrived. In their absence, the Prefect sat at the front where he could observe; he was not provided a throne, but his bearing suggested that the simple wooden chair was as good a throne as any. He was the lord of that manor, there was not a soul present who would have argued otherwise. After a matter of minutes, the pages returned, each bearing a platter of food.

“Anglès always procures the best,” the Inspector said approvingly. “He is rightfully generous with those who see to it that France continues to be a safe and lawful country.”

Across the room, Valjean caught sight of Gisquet, who had drawn Nay into a round of banter back and forth between himself and his patron. Then Nay plucked a grape from the platter he held and placed it delicately in Gisquet’s mouth; Valjean quickly averted his gaze.

Dinner, when it was served, was as sumptuous as Javert had promised. Plates of duck, oyster, and fish were devoured, and Valjean found himself pressed with a number of little chocolates, which were filled with a tart liquor that lingered on the tongue. It was all delicious, and yet Valjean could not forget that dinner was only the prelude to what came after. The thought niggled at him, until the food was like ash in his mouth. He was also uncomfortably aware of Javert watching him whenever Valjean’s own head was lowered.

So it came to pass that dinner was concluded, and the pages removed the dishes from the hall, carrying things away upon small trolleys. As they worked, the Prefect took his place once more at the head of the room.

“You all know how the invitation stands,” he said. “No man has been called hither who has not already been afforded by God the gifts befitting his station. Therefore, let us give our commendations to the initiates and leave them to their task here tonight - to resolve what stings of conscience or doubt may yet afflict them, that they may be united in full with their duty, and nothing will turn them from their paths.”

At that, there was a smattering of cheers and applause. Valjean looked around for any sign of what he might be asked to do, but in vain. The hall and its people gave nothing away.

The Prefect waved benevolently. “To the rest of you, goodnight. You have your rooms, I trust you know how to use them.” There was more laughter at that, of a slightly raucous nature. Small numbers began to peel away, vanishing into the _salle basse_ and presumably on to the corridors beyond.

As the number of occupants dwindled, Chabouillet stretched and stood. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I shall see you both in the morning. If you like, I could -”

Whatever he had been about to say, the Secretary was brought up short by the reappearance of M. Nay in the door opening. He carried with him a coil of rope, and shortly thereafter the other page boys emerged from behind, each bearing a like burden. Chabouillet eyed them thoughtfully, finishing his speech with, “But then, I suppose there is no rush to retire.”

Eight other pairs remained besides Valjean and Javert when the double doors closed at last with a heavy thud. Valjean had no doubt that these were the rest of the ‘initiates’ who had pledged themselves to the Prefecture’s ritual. The Secretary also stood on hand, plainly intrigued, as Nay and another dark-haired page drew close to the table where they had dined.  

“You have concluded to stay here?” Nay asked of Javert. When the Inspector was seated, the two were nearly the same height.

“Yes,” Javert told the youth.

At that, Nay allowed the rope he carried to uncoil. Kneeling once more upon the floor, he was difficult to see behind the table, but the sounds of shuffling, combined with the Secretary’s encouragement - “Yes, good, like that but tighter,” - filled in for Valjean what his eyes could not: Nay had tied off the end of his rope, and was beginning to carefully wind it around Javert’s legs.

At once, Valjean knew what Nay’s intention must be, and he knew just as instantly that he would not, could not, allow it for himself. Moreover, he knew he could not refuse; to fail the initiation was to fail everything, putting to waste the time he had already sacrificed away from Montreuil, and likely sacrificing his liberty with it.

Still, as Nay continued to secure the rope, wrapping it up the length of Javert’s calf, Valjean felt himself growing faint. Shackles did not have to be forged into links to strip from a man his humanity. Worst of all was the knowledge that Javert was still watching him like some great bird of prey across the table, no doubt waiting for the reaction which would at last give the Mayor away as other than what he pretended to be.

So it was that when the darker-haired page asked of Valjean, “You have concluded to stay here?” it took every ounce of Valjean’s willpower to give a single, curt nod ‘yes’. He turned his head as the boy knelt, certain he would be sick if he bore witness to the ropes fastening him. The Inspector was still watching him almost insolently, but Valjean could not summon the nerve to reprimand him for it.

That was when Chabouillet spoke up. “Ernest,” he said, his voice husky. “Allow me.”

Despite himself, Valjean looked back. In the chair opposite, Javert sat in quiet repose, his left side tied immovably to the chair. Nay had looped the rope up once around the man’s waist, but that was as much headway as he made before the Secretary himself knelt, taking the rope in his own hands.

“Monsieur -” Javert began, but a single touch to the inside of the knee silenced him.

“You are my protégé,” Chabouillet said quietly. “It is right I should do this.”

Valjean repressed a flinch as he felt the braided hemp tighten around his own ankle, but Javert provided a most unexpected distraction; he had dropped his head to look at the Secretary, his brow furrowed slightly and his mouth twisted as if with a question.

“You do me too much honor,” Javert murmured finally as Chabouillet pulled the rope taut.

The Secretary only smiled. “Maybe so,” he said, beginning to fasten the man’s arms. Javert’s breathing quickened as Chabouillet leaned closer, not quite brushing against his neck, and Valjean was certain he had not been mistaken to think the men were lovers. In that position, it was very easy to imagine; another inch, and Chabouillet would be able to press his mouth to the spot below Javert’s ear, until perhaps the Inspector would sigh aloud, turning his head to catch the Secretary’s mouth with his own.

Startled, Valjean shook himself. It was not any business of his what relations the Secretary and his protégé had, but it was too late; once the thought had occurred, so too came with it a rush of heat that collected not in his face but in the pit of his stomach. Close behind came a second, more insidious thought which begged the question, what if not the Secretary, but another in his place, one whom Javert could trust just as implicitly, who would never do him harm, who would be allowed close, even enough to touch -

Once more, he shook himself, struggling to clear his mind. He was Jean Valjean, not Jean Madeleine, and he could not forget it. There were some things he mustn’t ever allow himself.

Valjean refocused to find himself bound to his chair from the neck down; he was not entirely sure when that had happened. Arms cinched tight to his sides, Valjean’s fingers tightened around the seat of the chair. The page boy’s handiwork was practiced, and Valjean was unable to do more than shift his weight a fraction of an inch to either side. Lacking a knife, his strength was not enough to set him loose, and Valjean made a fervent promise to himself that if he survived the week, he would see to it he was never without a saw on him.

Likewise, he found to his dismay that his trousers had grown uncomfortably tight in the interim period. The page boy did not so much as look at him askance, but still Valjean felt humiliated. To think he had imagined such things, and of Javert of all people!

Yet, across the way, the Inspector did not appear to be faring much better. His face was as flushed as Valjean’s felt, and though he sat still and stared straight ahead, he did not seem to see Valjean at all. It was rather as though Javert were staring through him, his impeccable self-restraint fraying with every slow, measured breath. At his side, Chabouillet tied off the end of the rope; just where the Secretary had placed his hands, Valjean could not tell, but there was a slight movement of Javert’s throat, and then he spoke one word.

“Monsieur.” His voice was quiet and strained, equal parts plaintive and alluring. Valjean supposed the Inspector was as hard as he was, bulging through his uniform from the Secretary’s light touches.

The corner of Chabouillet’s mouth lifted in a smile that was almost cruel. “Oh, but I forget myself,” he said. “Tonight is for reflection, solemnity. Inspector, we should finish this another time.”

Javert closed his eyes. “Yes, Monsieur,” he croaked, a single bead of sweat running down into his collar.

The Secretary stood, giving a flippant wave of his hand as he turned to go. Indifferent to the silent test of wills playing out in front of them, the page boys removed the candlesticks from the tabletop, holding them out of the way. Javert’s head followed his superior’s receding figure as Chabouillet strode toward the doors until, in what seemed to take no small force of will, he looked back to Valjean.

For all that the Inspector’s focus was compromised, he concentrated on Valjean with a singular intensity. There was, however, a different sort of frisson in the air as they locked eyes; for once, the Inspector’s expression was without acrimony, though it was still disconcertingly reminiscent of a wolf. Javert held Valjean’s gaze for a long moment before he broke it to take a pointed, appraising glance downwards.

It was only the ropes which prevented Valjean from shivering. No, he had not assumed too much before. The custom had been demonstrated clearly; in Javert’s world, a superior was someone to answer to in the bedchamber as much as in the office, and that included Madeleine. They were to be joined together, an unlikely pair made one. Javert himself expected it.

Under his clothing, Valjean’s prick was painfully erect, the ropes preventing him from relieving the desperate itch his thoughts had awoken. Javert seemed almost to be undressing him, the way his gaze wandered. It might have been a threat, the Inspector of Police baring his skin in a search for scars or brands, but Javert’s eyes were a little too glossy, his breathing a little too heavy, to communicate anything but a base need, doubtless made worse by whatever maddening state the Secretary had left him in. Valjean tried to envision the Inspector’s touch as a thing he might welcome. The idea frightened himself less than he thought it should.

Light flickered across the ceiling, throwing distorted shadows on the wall. There was an emotion in his breast, an untamed, untested thing, and the effect it had on his usually abstemious nature was concerning. Ropes dug into his shoulders; it took little imagination to think of them instead as hands clutching him, holding him fast. Javert’s eyes were dark, and they hinted at pleasures he had not thought of since Toulon.

That was when Nay and his associate turned, their purpose complete, to make their way back toward the rear portal. The rest of the page boys were not far behind, leaving the initiates bound and alone. Valjean was alarmed to see they were carrying the candlesticks with them. He could only watch in mounting distress as they vanished one by one, the light growing dimmer by degrees until it was suddenly, terribly gone altogether.

The hall was pitch dark. Valjean could hear the breathing of the others, and could feel the ropes across the barrel of his chest. One particularly harsh pattern of exhalations he attributed to Javert, and though Valjean was invisible in the blackness, he felt more exposed than ever. Anything could be done to him, and he would be powerless to stop it.

He was afraid. He was aroused. He could still picture the look on Javert’s face, lacking anger, lacking suspicion, accepting the lie of Madeleine because the Secretary did so. The Inspector would never look at Valjean like that, and that knowledge fueled his desire as much as it did his shame.

In the darkness, no-one said a word. At first it was merely quiet, but as the quiet went on, it grew into a silence, the breaking of which was implicitly taboo. Unseeing and conflicted of heart, Valjean’s mind conjured phantom shapes in the dark, looming silhouettes come to remind him of his place. The nightmare was upon him again, memories of Toulon inescapable. Valjean was trapped, and not only by ropes.

His knuckles hurt with the force of his grip on the chair, and he could not help but fear what his dreams would tell him when at last he fell asleep.


	3. Day the Third

An endless, sleepless night faded slowly into morning. After innumerable hours spent sweating through alternate spates of fear and passion, Valjean at last perceived a distant, glowing light. He squinted, the sudden flare of brightness as blinding as the dark had been. The light grew brighter and brighter, and as he grew accustomed to its splendor, Valjean recognized the very same page boys from the night before returning the candles to the hall. Across the table, Javert blinked blearily. There were shadows under his eyes, and Valjean supposed the Inspector had not managed any more sleep than he had.

As the pages set down the candlesticks, not upon the tables but around the perimeter of the room, the double doors opened, and the rest of the manor’s guests entered. Valjean was vaguely aware of the Secretary among them. The people did not choose to sit, instead spreading out along one wall, where they stood as though patiently waiting for something.

Valjean was waiting as well. He tried to shake the exhaustion from his head, praying they were soon to be released from their bonds, for the ropes chafed his skin and he was terribly sore. Still, as the spectators remained quiet and observant, Valjean gathered that there was more yet to come. With bated breath, he watched silently like the rest.

Presently, the Prefect appeared in the portal at the back of the room. Anglès was attired as he had been the night before, with the addition of a red cape around his shoulders. In his hand, he carried a white-handled knife.

Anglès approached the first of the tables with great ceremony. The two men bound there had the look of ministers, and they smiled shyly at one another. Raising the blade high, the Prefect brought it down and cut their ropes in a few smooth strokes. There was applause as the pair staggered to their feet, and then the page boys descended to remove the table and chairs from the premises. Anglès, meanwhile, moved on to the next pair.

Valjean held back a relieved sigh. So they were being set at liberty. At least, it appeared that way. Nevertheless, as Anglès moved through the initiates one by one, the fulcrum of Valjean’s heart tipped back toward a state of oppression. If it all proved to be some elaborate scheme, contrived to render him captive like Samson, then he had played right into their hands; bound to the chair, he was as good as caught. Anglès turned in their direction, and Valjean’s heart sped its beating. If Javert stood up and declared him a convict, he was done for.

The Prefect stopped behind the Inspector’s chair. Light flashed along the length of the blade, and the ropes were severed. As pieces fell away, Javert sat up straighter, the weariness fading from his face. He got to his feet, towering in his height, and Valjean quailed. Whatever Javert had or had not felt the night before, there was no evidence of it left. Instead, there was only a particular glint in the Inspector’s eye, a certain knowing look, which suggested the trap was ready to spring shut.

How easy it would be, Valjean thought, for Javert to put an end to his suspicions then and there. Rolling up the cuff of the Mayor’s shirtsleeve would reveal the marks left by years of wearing a chain, and that would be all it took to trade out ropes for manacles. As the Prefect circled around to the Mayor’s side of the table, Valjean half-expected Javert to stop him. And indeed, the Inspector narrowed his eyes, as if he knew all too well the opportunity he was presented with. The look on his face was considering, as he weighed what he suspected against the Mayor’s word.

The moment passed. Whatever his misgivings, Javert held his tongue, and Anglès cut Valjean free. Not for the first time, Valjean gave thanks for the protection his position gave him; Javert would not condemn him without more proof than his own skepticism. Rubbing the circulation back into his wrists, Valjean sat forward. A hand extended itself in his periphery, and Valjean looked up to see Javert offering his arm.

“Monsieur Mayor,” the Inspector said demurely.

Hesitating for only a fraction of a second, Valjean accepted the assistance, and Javert pulled him to his feet. Standing chest to chest, Javert held onto his arm for a moment longer than was strictly necessary before releasing him.

“Thank you,” Valjean murmured.

The pages moved between them, shuffling impatiently as they removed the table and chairs, but Valjean was focused solely on the heat from the Inspector’s hand persisting on his wrist. Javert merely inclined his head in acknowledgment.

As the room was cleared of its contents, Valjean backed away from the open center. The Inspector followed behind, deceptively docile. He kept his head lowered as the other initiates gathered around them. Did he regret not speaking up? Glancing back over his shoulder, Valjean searched Javert’s face, but the signs of his unspoken judgement were hidden. To look at him now, it was as though he had no reservations whatsoever as to following after Madeleine deferentially.

The page boys had disappeared, and with them the furniture. Then the sound reached the hall of creaking wheels. Little by little, a strange sight unveiled itself in the open doorway. At first, Valjean did not know what he was looking at. Then, he was simply confused. With no small amount of effort, the pages were dragging a low, wheeled platform into the hall. Upon it rested a set of brass scales. At the head of the procession was M. Nay, leading the way with a torch he carried with pride.

As the cart was dragged into the light, Valjean looked at it in wonder. The scales were a masterpiece of metallurgy, if for no other reason than their enormous size, as tall as a man and finely decorated. It also became apparent that they were wildly out of balance; there was a large, wooden block in one of the hanging dishes, and no mass in the other. Then he saw four more of the pages all straining to push a single, smaller trolley, and his face went carefully blank as he understood.

Upon the trolley were a series of seven weights. They were not unduly large, but must have been of an incredible density for all that the page boys were sweating as they wheeled them in. Valjean’s eyes flickered from the weights to the scale to Javert, who stood to the side watching the processional with a lupine stare. The Inspector guessed already at who the Mayor was, Valjean was certain of it, and the last thing he wanted was to offer him any further proof.

The pages drew to a halt, the scales standing proudly in the center of the hall, and the weights beside them. Anglès stepped forward, gesturing at the artifacts with a grand sweep of his arm.

“Whoever goes into an artist’s room and knows nothing of painting, and yet will speak of it with much display, is deserving of mockery. So it is that I challenge you, Messieurs, to prove your virtue in a game of strength. Let each of our new initiates step up and attempt to balance the scales. To move even one weight is proof of a stout heart. It is a rare man who can move all seven! Dubois, I will ask you to start.”

Valjean watched the first man, Dubois, step up to the scale. With a determined grin on his face, he hefted the first weight, only to find himself staggering as his arms sagged under it. With great difficulty, he climbed onto the platform and hoisted the thing above his head, letting it tip forward into the dish; the balance jerked, vacillating back and forth until it steadied, the dishes fractionally closer to even. Then Dubois descended from the platform and lifted a second weight. He was going red in the face, and no sooner did he deposit it than he fell to his knees, panting. At that, two pages ran forward to empty the dish; it took the both of them together to lift one of the metallic bricks.

“This exercise should be no trouble for you, Monsieur Mayor,” Javert said quietly.

Valjean started. Too well he remembered a loaded cart sinking in the mud, crushing an elderly man beneath it. “It does not do to make presumptions,” he responded. “The weights are quite heavy, it would seem.”

And indeed, most men who made the attempt could only manage two or three weights before they gave up in defeat. One, a new captain of the National Guard, lifted as many as five before his arms gave out on the sixth, and he was not permitted to try again.

The crowd was responsive now that they had something to watch. Each success was met by cheers, each failure by exclamations and conciliatory remarks. Among the onlookers, Chabouillet stood with his arms crossed, inclining his head once to each man as he approached the scales. For his part, Valjean watched the task unfold with some trepidation. He had no inclination to draw more attention to himself, but Javert had borne witness to the incident of M. Fauchelevent and his cart, and knew his strength. Undoubtedly, it would only make the Inspector more suspicious if he sought to conceal his abilities.

“You have done this already?” he asked of Javert.

The Inspector nodded. “When I became the Secretary’s protégé. I succeeded at lifting four.”

“Monsieur Madeleine.”

Valjean looked up. The Prefect was beckoning him closer; there was no time left to dither. He was conscious of both the Secretary and Javert watching him, the former with mild curiosity, and the latter with a surety that made Valjean’s skin crawl. Bracing himself, he stepped forward.

Laid out upon the smaller trolley were seven large bricks fashioned of some mineral Valjean did not recognize. It was dark and metallic, and as he lifted the first of them, he realized why the others had struggled so with the Prefect’s challenge. The size of the brick belied its true mass; he guessed it weighed as much as four or five bricks that size rightfully ought to have. Still, it was nothing he could not manage. With a grunt, he lifted the first weight into the dish.

The second was no harder than its predecessor. By the time he reached the third, he was growing warm from the effort, but that was the only way in which he was affected. It was also apparent from the stirrings of the audience that his prowess had been noted. As Valjean went to lift the fourth, he made it a point to wipe the nonexistent sweat from his brow. He was not sure that he fooled anyone; certainly, Javert was continuing to stare with a look that could only be described as hungry.

When he came to the fifth brick, Valjean was breathing heavier. A man with forethought would have stretched before such exertions, and he had not. Even so, the fifth weight made it into the dish. At that, a spontaneous burst of applause broke out in some corner of the room, but Valjean’s gut twisted in response. Too clearly, he could hear the echo of the _bagne_ and the sobriquet he was given. ' _Jean le Cric_ ,' the inmates called him, and it was a name the Inspector would surely remember.

The weight of the sixth brick was more pronounced, not because it was any different from the others, but because it was joined by the tremendous weight on his heart. With every success, he only proved before the entire room that he had the strength of a convict. The sixth brick fell with a clang into the dish, and the scales tipped nearly, but not quite, into balance.

The Mayor’s expression as he returned to the trolley was unreadable, even as inside his tumultuous thoughts had landed upon an idea. It had occurred to Valjean that he could fumble the seventh brick, failing to deliver it to its resting place, and in so doing make himself somewhat less memorable in the eyes of the spectators.

And yet, he pondered as he hefted the final weight, Javert knew his strength already. Would it not be more suspicious if he were to purposely throw the competition? As a Mayor, his strength was an impressive anomaly. If it seemed that he hoped to fail, then he looked like a man with something to hide.

On the pretext of turning around toward the scales, Valjean chanced a glance at Javert. The Inspector was watching him still, but his gaze lacked the cold, oppressive quality it had always possessed in the past. Instead, the hunger had taken over, a hectic flush staining his cheeks, which made Valjean want to move both farther away and closer at the same time. Perhaps the safest course of action was to complete Anglès’ challenge after all.

With one final heave of his arms, Valjean dumped the seventh brick into the weighing dish. The bar across the balance dropped, rose, dropped, and rose again as the dishes sought equilibrium. When they stilled, the bricks came to a rest in perfect balance with the block on the other side.

There was a moment of silence. Then the room broke out in a unified cheer, above which rang the Prefect’s voice saying, “Masterfully done, Monsieur!” The man was lost in the crowd as the onlookers surged forward, each eager to offer their congratulations. Valjean adopted a smile worthy of Madeleine, accepting their praise with the imitation of good grace. It did nothing to prevent the prickling along the back of his neck as the Inspector looked on.

The Secretary made his way to the front, and the onlookers pulled away respectfully. Valjean drew breath, preparing to explain himself, when Chabouillet clapped him on the back.

“Well done,” he said. If there was warmth in his voice, then it was no more than was polite, but there was an evaluating character to his gaze as it roamed over Valjean’s figure, and his hand upon the Mayor’s shoulder traced the shape of the muscles beneath the tailcoat. Resisting the urge to shake loose, Valjean remained deliberately relaxed even while under the man’s assessment.

“You are too generous, Monsieur Chabouillet,” he replied.

“Javert,” said the Secretary without raising his eyes, “stop skulking in the corner and join us.”

The Inspector approached, appearing in Valjean’s line of sight, where he stopped and stood stiffly at parade rest. His gaze lingered a moment upon the Secretary’s hand, curled with an acquisitive air around the Mayor’s shoulder.

“Monsieur Mayor, I commend you.” Javert bowed, then straightened to add, “It is not just any man who could manage such a thing without coming away exhausted.”

Valjean swallowed at the insinuation, but Chabouillet agreed without seeming to notice the warning in the Inspector’s voice.

“Quite so,” the Secretary said. “Our texts acknowledge a great righteousness of spirit in the man who can balance the scales. Your reputation comes well-deserved.”

The expression which then passed over Javert’s face was one of exasperation, followed immediately by self-rebuke. “Yes,” he said, not sounding completely convinced. “That must be so.”

The Secretary launched into an explanation of their instructions for the following afternoon, but Valjean forgot to pay attention. Instead, he studied Javert. For the most part, the man’s face was impassively fixed upon Chabouillet, but every so often he took a glance in the Mayor’s direction. At those times, Valjean was reminded of the way the Inspector had watched him, ravenously, as though Valjean were a stag for the wolf to devour. He was certain he had not mistaken the heat in the man’s eyes; the only question that remained was what it meant.

Always in the past, if Javert’s countenance had been to display any trace of desire, then it was no more or less than that of the hunter, the primal, feral instinct to entrap and make him captive. Unless he had misjudged, however, the expression the Inspector wore as he watched Valjean shift the weights was not the same. It spoke of other ways of possessing a person, ones which were infinitely more treacherous than iron, and which tugged at something deep in his core.

When they set forth from the hall, Chabouillet expounding upon the intricacies of proper ritual dress, Valjean hunched into his shoulders. Retreating did nothing to lessen the claw-like grip of the Secretary on his arm, nor the ever-watchful presence which followed behind. It did not matter that he had yet to be outed as a fraud; the trial ahead of him still had the power to be his undoing.


	4. Day the Fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for discussion of blood/minor self-inflicted injury in this chapter.

Valjean looked askance at where Javert stood, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Shall we?” inquired the Inspector.

Facing forward again, Valjean looked upon the doors to the _salle haute_ , which were wider than he was tall, carved all over with planets and stars. By the grace of God, he had made it to the halfway mark, the week having not yet entirely eroded his fragile defenses, but the hardest part of the ordeal was still to come.

“I am ready,” he replied. “Though I am certain I look ridiculous.”

Nay had been far too eager that morning to outfit him in a saffron-dyed habit and woolen cloak. It was clothing which would make any man stand out, and most men were of slighter build than was Jean Valjean. The habit sat wrong across his shoulders, and he could not help but worry that with the wrong motion of the arms, the sleeves might ride up and expose more of his wrists than was prudent.

Javert’s quiet snort was one of amusement, slipping through the man’s stern countenance. “I confess, Monsieur, that I fear the same,” he said, and Valjean thought again that of all the things which had surprised him in that week, none had been half so startling as finding Javert waiting for him, attired in the same fashion. How anyone had convinced him to leave behind his starched shirts and grey coat, Valjean could not imagine. “But if you are ready, I believe it is time.”

So saying, he pushed upon the doors; they glided open effortlessly at his touch. On the other side, Valjean beheld a colonnade atop a short rise of stairs. In front of the steps was a bubbling fountain, and sitting on the rim was a bronze goblet. Beyond the colonnade, bright daylight obscured the details, but Valjean was keen enough of hearing to make out the somber tones of Chabouillet, coupled with M. Gisquet’s lighter voice.

“We are to drink,” Javert told him, gesturing at the goblet.

As the Inspector approached the fountain, Valjean paced after him. The goblet appeared to be full of spring water; Javert raised it in two hands.

“Your health, Monsieur Mayor,” he said, bringing the rim to his mouth. He did not lower his eyes as he drank, but rather held the Mayor’s gaze with something which was not derision, and Valjean had to fight to suppress a sudden, inexplicable shiver.

Then the Inspector lowered the goblet, a stray drop of water clinging to his lower lip; a strange compulsion came over Valjean to reach out and brush it away. Javert pressed the stem of the cup into the Mayor’s waiting hand, their bare fingers brushing, and Valjean wondered if he had ever seen the Inspector without his gloves.

The innocent gesture was much too intimate, and in his nervousness, he took a large gulp. It was impossible not to meet Javert’s eyes, however, and in so doing, he felt the same shiver again, like an earthquake in his soul. When he was through, Valjean handed the goblet back. He was careful as he did so that their hands did not brush again.

“This way,” the Inspector said, gesturing at the colonnade.

The pair mounted the steps, Javert confident, Valjean trailing behind. They ascended into a voluminous chamber fenestrated on one wall by tall windows, the expense of which must have been enormous. They were the first windows Valjean had seen in the _manoir_ with the curtains drawn back, and at first the sunlight was dazzling.

As his eyes adjusted to the glare, Valjean began to pick out other details; far to the back, another door, small and unassuming; a mosaic of marble and shell set in the floor; a table laden with a number of curious items, and behind it, two plush armchairs, in which sat Henri Gisquet on the left, and André Chabouillet on the right. Javert came to a halt, and Valjean stopped beside him.

“Welcome, Messieurs,” said Chabouillet. He and Gisquet both were draped in wine-colored robes, the Secretary’s being very fine in their make. He also wore a stole of mink, while on his hand was a signet ring. “My good friend and occasional adversary, Monsieur Périer, is otherwise engaged, and so he has sent his protégé in his place; he trusts you will not infer from his absence any ill-will.”

Javert bowed in response. Valjean, unsure of what he was meant to do, merely nodded.

“Inspector.”

It was Chabouillet who spoke, and Javert crossed the floor at once, kneeling beside the Secretary’s chair. Chabouillet extended his hand, and Javert pressed his lips to the man’s ring. Chabouillet allowed him to remain like that for a moment, before he turned his hand and cupped Javert’s chin instead.

“Javert, I have granted you this rank for good reason. Long have you operated as a spy, putting duty before your own life, and you have done so admirably. You have my trust, and it is right that you be rewarded.” Releasing his grip, the Secretary added, “You may stand. Monsieur Madeleine?”

As he looked upon the Mayor, Chabouillet’s eyes glittered with a jealous passion which was not wholly masked by his marble exterior. Javert, standing, turned to watch as Valjean walked forward, conscious of the echo of his shoes upon the floor. He was just wondering whether he ought to kneel when Chabouillet held up his hand, and Valjean stopped alongside the little table.

“Bring us the chalice,” the Secretary said.

Turning, Valjean frowned at the table’s contents. He supposed it was more like an altar than anything; covered in a black cloth, the table was set with a velvet-bound book, a gold chalice, an ivory candle, and a macabre representation of a human skull, which Valjean prayed was imitation only.

He lifted the vessel as he was bid; it was not unlike the goblet in its make, only slender and more elegant. He carried it over to where Chabouillet sat waiting, working to ignore the Inspector, who followed his approach with unconcealed interest. As ever, Valjean could only fear the scrutiny had a double purpose, and he was careful that his leg did not drag behind him in the slightest as he crossed the floor.

Stopping in front of the stuffed chair, Valjean extended the chalice. Chabouillet indicated he should continue to hold it as he reached into the folds of his robe. When he withdrew his hand, he was wielding a knife. Valjean did not quite step back in alarm, but his eyes widened; if it came to a fight, he had no doubt that he was the stronger, but there were three of them and only one of him.

Then Chabouillet held the blade over the cup, and Valjean exhaled. It was just one more part of the ritual, yet that did not entirely quell the uneven pounding of his heart.

“Gisquet?” asked the Secretary, gesturing at the altar.

Gisquet nodded and got to his feet, moving to pick up the book. This he opened, and turned the yellowed pages until he stopped and read aloud, “Do you resolve to act in common cause, through prosperity and adversity?”

“I do,” said Inspector Javert.

Valjean closed his eyes. “I do,” Mayor Madeleine repeated.

“Will you give us your hands on it?” Gisquet asked.

With a meaningful look, Chabouillet set the blade of the knife against his palm and pressed down in a single, clean slice. Immediately, blood welled up from the cut, filling the creases of his hand with crimson rivulets. Clenching his fist, the Secretary allowed some of it to drip into the chalice, where it pooled in the bottom. Then he wiped the knife on a rag, and passed it to Javert.

Valjean could scarcely look away as Javert tightened his grip on the leather handle. The Inspector did not flinch as he laid the steel against his palm, not even when he dragged it along the skin, leaving a line of red behind. Just as the Secretary had done, Javert squeezed several drops into the chalice. He wiped the rag across the blade, and then he held it out to Valjean expectantly. His wounded hand continued to bleed where it hung at his side, dribbling down his fingers.

Valjean accepted the knife readily. Pain, at least, was one thing which did not frighten him. Holding the blade over his left hand, Valjean pressed down. The steel was sharp; he did not even feel it as it made an incision in the calluses of his palm. Then the bleeding started, and with it an incessant stinging. He ignored it, allowing the ruby liquid to fall into the cup.

Chabouillet nodded approvingly. “This chalice we will keep - it shall be needed in later practices.” Looking between the two of them, he added, “You are dismissed.”

Javert bowed deeply before making an about-face and taking his leave. Valjean blinked in surprise, but when the Secretary returned to his conversation with Gisquet, disregarding him as easily as if he were not there, Valjean turned and darted toward the exit. Better to be gone, he thought, before Chabouillet could take any renewed interest in him.

Once he was sheltered from view by the stairs, Valjean searched his pocket for a handkerchief. He wrapped the cloth tight around his hand, knotting it; the cut was not deep, and would heal quickly enough.

Beyond the fountain, the Inspector was on his way out as they had come. His own hand still hung balled shut at his side. Seeing this, Valjean hurried after him down the steps.

“Javert,” he called. “Wait!”

The Inspector paused mid-step, looking back over his shoulder.

“Your hand,” Valjean explained, going to take it.

Javert made no move to stop him, but his face was clearly puzzled as he asked, “Monsieur?”

“This needs bandaging,” Valjean replied. The goblet had not moved from its place on the edge of the fountain, so Valjean refilled it and poured the clear water over Javert’s palm, rinsing it clean.

There was a frown in the Inspector’s voice as he said, “You are not required to do this.”

“It will be harder to do by yourself,” said Valjean, lowering his eyes.

Truth be told, he was uncertain what had come over him. Javert was undoubtedly well-versed in tending to his own injuries. His fingers trembled a little as he wrapped a second handkerchief over the torn skin; Javert was watching him again, but with neither suspicion nor heat. In lieu of that was something softer, disbelief mingling with gratitude. It was an altogether disarming combination, and Valjean did not know what to make of it, or why it seemed to cause such an ache in his chest.

When the wrap was finished, Javert flexed his fingers around the bandage. “Monsieur should not abase himself for my sake,” he said quietly, “but thank you.”

Valjean could only incline his head in acknowledgment. Javert seemed for a moment as though he had something else he wished to say, but then he simply bent at the waist before he turned and walked out into the corridor.

There in the little antechamber, Valjean stood frozen. It was not until Javert’s footsteps faded into the distance that he moved at all. It was difficult to forget that for a time, his hand had held Javert’s, open and warm in his own.


	5. Day the Fifth

It was late in the afternoon when M. Nay appeared suddenly at Valjean’s elbow, his sapphire eyes wide.

“Monsieur,” he said. “Oh, but it is a wonder! A thing most rare has transpired!”

“What is it, my boy?” Valjean asked, pausing on his way down the hall.

Nay’s face was flushed with excitement. “It is Monsieur the Secretary - he has requested you for a private audience!”

At that, Valjean went cold. He may not have been certain what Chabouillet wanted, but he could guess. If the way the man looked at him were any indication, covetously, like Valjean was a thing to be owned... Yes, he could guess very well.

“I see,” Valjean replied flatly.

“You do not understand,” said Nay, quite earnest in his manner. “It is a great honor. Only a very few men are permitted to enter his personal rooms.”

“Of which I suppose Inspector Javert is one?”

Nay nodded. “Of course. He is the protégé to the Secretary, after all.”

“Of course.”

All the gears of Valjean’s mind were churning in furious rhythm. So far he had cooperated, even knowing what could be asked of him, what would be asked of him eventually. Could he falter now that that inevitability had presented itself?

It was with no little resignation that Valjean said, “Take me to him.”

Nay led Valjean down one hall and into another. It was not a passageway the Mayor had had cause to use before, and Valjean slowed, collecting his bearings. There was only one way to go and only one door, all the way at the end of the hall. It was toward that door that Nay was moving.

The page boy pushed the heavy leaf open almost reverentially; it swung onto a landing at the top of a staircase which twisted down into the earth. Where it led, Valjean could not tell. The stairs went into darkness.

Turning, Nay lifted a torch from its sconce on the wall.

“This way,” he said, waving a pale hand at the opening, and as Valjean followed him down, he had to fight off the notion that he was being swallowed by the manor itself.

The stairs descended for some distance. When they ended, it was in a stone chamber, empty except for a tall dias in the center and another door behind it. Standing upon the dias was a marble statue, not unlike a caryatid in its make. The statue was of a woman, blindfolded, and balancing a set of scales in one hand. Laying across her feet was a single strip of black cloth.

“This is where I must leave you,” said Nay. He glanced once at the other door. “Only those who have been invited may go further.”

Steeling himself, Valjean crossed the floor, heart pounding in his chest. He was passing the dias when he was stopped by a small cough. Glancing over his shoulder, Valjean found the shameless page boy looking alarmingly close to sheepish.

“You have to wear it,” said Nay.

Valjean blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

Taking a few steps forward, Nay lifted the taffeta cloth from the dias and held it out. “You have to wear it,” he repeated, with a meaningful nod at the statue. “That is the rule.”

Dumbly, Valjean took one end of the proffered material. He had no concept of what he was meant to do with it, unless perhaps it was a finely hemmed scarf, and then he took another look at the statue.

“You do not mean...” Valjean trailed off, a fresh wave of discomfort coursing through him. It felt as though his stomach had been filled with molten lead.

The look on Nay’s face was uncompromising as he thrust the fabric into Valjean’s hesitant hands. “I can help you tie it, if you like,” he said.

Valjean shook his head vehemently. He did not think he could tolerate anyone else binding him again, even the boy, harmless though he was. “I can manage.”

Slowly, Valjean raised the blindfold to his face. The material was cool against his flushing skin; it offered a perverse sort of relief for a moment before his fingers drew the knot tight against the back of his head. Then the agitation returned. In the low light, he could see next to nothing through the cloth. He was no longer even entirely certain where the door was.

Slender fingers took hold of his own, calloused hand. “It is this way, Monsieur.”

Nay gave a gentle tug, and Valjean followed. He could make out the glowing shape of the torch, and then he heard the creak of hinges. The page boy placed the Mayor’s hand against a stone wall.

“There are some more stairs, Monsieur,” Nay said, whispering. “Mind your step.”

Nodding, Valjean felt out his footing carefully. The toe of his shoe found the nosing of the stair tread, and he took a cautious step down. Drawing a deep breath, he took another; there was a soft click as the door closed behind him, and then the blur of torch light disappeared. He was well and truly blinded.

As he descended step by careful step, Valjean leaned heavily on the curve of the wall to guide him. The stairs spiraled further underground, the air cooling perceptibly with every inch. All was silent, save for the sound of his own breathing. It was the same principle as the Secretary’s initiation rite, he told himself sternly. The blindfold was a stage prop, and nothing more. Still, he could not shake the overwhelming sense of vulnerability; his fingers traced every pit and groove in the stone wall, and yet he could see nothing.

What gave Chabouillet the right to command such a thing, Valjean wondered. Madeleine was a respected magistrate; did the Secretary truly have the authority to insist he participate in such a farce? And yet, Valjean thought again of Javert, and how the man obeyed Chabouillet seemingly without question. If the Secretary had somehow leashed the ruthless Inspector, there was no telling what he was capable of.

All at once, several things happened in tandem. Valjean felt the wall curve away from him, and a slight draft suggested he had come unto a larger volume of space. His boot sought out the edge of the next step, and found itself on solid flagstone.

Stymied, Valjean stopped in his tracks. The room, if that was indeed where he was, was as quiet as the stairwell. Straining his ears, Valjean listened but heard nothing. Perhaps some matter had called the Secretary away, and he was free to go. Valjean allowed himself to dwell a moment in that desperate hope until there was the unmistakable creak of a mattress.

“Ah.” The word was spoken in the aloof tones Valjean had come to ascribe to Chabouillet. “You are here. Good.”

“Monsieur,” said Valjean with the slightest tip of his head. A man in his position was wise to be polite. There was no change in the light, or rather in the lack thereof, and so behind the blindfold Valjean was aware only of a dimensionless void in the vicinity of the Secretary’s voice.

“Ernest brought you?” Without waiting for a response, Chabouillet went on, “You are very prompt. But then, it is good for a man to be eager to serve.”

Beneath his words, Valjean could make out the clip of the Secretary’s stride, like the light tread of a panther stalking closer. Something brushed against the front of his coat, and Valjean flinched backwards in surprise, until he realized it was Chabouillet’s fingers curling around his coat lapel. Valjean fought the urge to swallow.

When he spoke again, Chabouillet’s voice was much too close. “It is a wonderful little grotto, wouldn’t you say?”

Unconsciously, Valjean raised his hand to the silk across his eyes, and the Secretary chuckled softly.

“Of course,” he said. “You can’t see it. Perhaps next time. It is a pity, but such is the tradition - newcomers must pay homage to our Lady Justice. That is, after all, why we are all here.”

“Is it?” Valjean’s tongue was too heavy in his mouth. “I was under the impression I was here for a rather different reason.”

The Secretary’s hand slid down the front of Valjean’s coat, hovering a moment in the region of his navel before dropping away. “Well,” he said, “I will admit what I have in mind is a little different.”

Valjean did not know the extent to which his face betrayed his reservations, but his pulse pounded in his ears, and he could feel the sweat gathering on the nape of his neck. Chabouillet must have sensed some of his uncertainty, for he steered Valjean forward firmly by the elbow.

“This way,” Chabouillet commanded.

Underfoot, flagstones gave way to a thick carpet, dampening their steps. When they came to a stop, Valjean shivered; the anticipation was the worst part. It occurred to him to wonder whether Chabouillet would be a gentle lover, or if he would be made to plead for mercy before the day was out. He did not care for the sound of the latter, but neither did he know he deserved the former; after all, it was not honesty on his part which had gotten him so far.

That thought in turn spun him like the needle of a compass back to Javert; had the Inspector capitulated to the Secretary’s will solely because he was ordered, or could it be that he enjoyed it, that there was pleasure for him in giving into the machinations of his superiors? For a moment, the blurry image floated in his mind of Javert sprawled on a bed, disheveled almost past recognition, and another figure bent over him, not Chabouillet but instead...

It was dangerous to think that way, for more reasons than one. A sudden warmth was flickering to life under his skin, and Valjean was aware enough of himself to know that it was not merely the product of nerves. The ring of a bottle clinking against metal, followed by the gurgle of liquid, snapped Valjean back to the present.

Candidly, the Secretary said, “There is one thing you must understand. And it is this - Javert belongs to me. He has been mine ever since he aspired to become more than a convict-guard in Toulon Prison. Our own rules dictate that I must now share him with you. That is acceptable to me under one condition only - namely, that you be mine as well.”

Valjean took a deep, shuddering breath. If ever there was a moment to object on his own behalf, that was the time. Yet when he opened his mouth, what came forth was not a protest but a concession.

“I understand, Monsieur.”

Dimly, Valjean wondered at himself. Chabouillet was a jealous man, one who may not even have thought to question Valjean’s motives if it meant he could have the Inspector to himself. Why then not attempt to talk his way out? The answer, when it came, took the form of a memory; there was something strangely intoxicating in the way Javert had looked at him of late, not with anger or mistrust, but with something nearly akin to want. It undid what he knew of the world, altered his thoughts, and he found himself craving it.

“Here.” Taking Valjean by the hand, Chabouillet wrapped his fingers around the stem of what felt like a heavy goblet. “Have a drink.”

“What is it?” Valjean asked warily.

“Mead,” the Secretary replied. “An especially excellent brew of honey-wine. I think you will enjoy it.”

Valjean raised the goblet to his nose. He could smell the metallic tang of the bronze drinking vessel, as well as something sweeter, more complex. As he took a sip of the heady drink, spiced, and with traces of lemon, he could not deny that it was very good. Still, in returning the goblet to Chabouillet, the Secretary took a large gulp himself, and Valjean was left with the distinct impression that a transaction he did not understand had just been made.

Chabouillet set the goblet down with a thud. “Anglès always procures the best,” he murmured. Then he turned, catching Valjean around the waist and pulling him close. They were nose to nose as the Secretary continued, “What pleases me above all else is obedience. Do exactly as I say when I say it, and we will get along splendidly.”

A dozen responses flashed through Valjean’s head, but he brushed them all aside. He had had his chance to bow out, and he had not taken it. Instead, he nodded once, decisively. Let Chabouillet take what he wanted. He was already damned, and had been from the moment he allowed himself to start thinking of Javert with desire.

Then there was a hand on the back of his head and another wrapped up in his coat as Chabouillet brought their mouths crashing together. The Secretary kissed him hungrily, biting his lip and pressing his tongue to Valjean’s teeth. He heard a startled groan, which Valjean realized had issued from his own throat. He could not remember ever being touched in such a way before; in the _bagne_ , men were concerned with feeding a baser, more animal instinct. His mouth opened as Chabouillet kissed him hard enough to bruise, and all he could taste was musk and the cloying spice of the mead, cinnamon and cloves heavy on the Secretary’s breath.

“Clothes. Off.”

The order was punctuated by a thrust of Chabouillet’s hips, and Valjean gasped; there was a hard bulge in the Secretary’s trousers, and as their hips ground together, the pressure kindled an answering flame in Valjean’s blood. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the buttons of his tailcoat to little effect, but the Secretary pulled the garment insistently off his shoulders and began working on his waistcoat.

“Very good,” Chabouillet growled against his mouth, pushing Valjean backwards until his legs collided with the side of the bed. The waistcoat came off as though Chabouillet held a personal vendetta against it, and then he hitched one knee up onto the mattress so that he was half-standing, half-straddling Valjean’s lap.

“I will have you,” Chabouillet whispered into his ear. “I will have you in every way one man can have another. You listen to me, you obey _me_ , is that clear?”

Valjean whimpered; the Secretary’s fingers had found the button of his shirt collar and were starting to undo it. Without his shirt, he was doomed, the scars on his back ready to give him away.

“I said, is that clear?” Chabouillet repeated, his fingers tightening their grip in Valjean’s hair.

“Yes,” Valjean gasped. “Yes, Monsieur.”

It was all too much. His head was pounding, as were other, less innocent parts of his anatomy. Chabouillet stroked the soft curls scattered across Valjean’s chest almost gingerly, a far cry from his other hand, which was still clenched in the Mayor’s hair, wavering on the threshold between pleasure and pain. Valjean’s shirt hung catastrophically open, and before he could invent an excuse, Chabouillet tugged it free, baring his history to the world. Valjean could only pray the room was too dark for the Secretary to notice anything untoward through the haze of lust which had claimed him.

“Lie down on the bed,” said Chabouillet, and then the man pulled away. Hurrying to comply, Valjean hoisted himself onto the mattress; he did not know how the Secretary would treat perceived disobedience, but he did not wish to find out. He heard the slide of a drawer, and decided that the Secretary was searching for something.

The duvet had the feel of heavy, expensive material beneath his hands, and it took only a little feeling around before he found his way to the head of the bed. There Valjean settled down on his stomach, trembling with mingled arousal and anxiety. It was a long time since he had done such a thing, but he remembered what submission meant. He knew, too, that his discovery was imminent; the lash was an instrument of brutality, and some of the marks it left were long, ropy lines down his shoulders and spine. Even in the dark, if Chabouillet so much as put a hand to his back, Valjean was done for. Fate was a cruel mistress; he had given his consent to preserve his secrets, and now it was his consent which might betray him.

Then, however, it seemed that Providence favored Valjean, for Chabouillet glanced up and observed the position he had taken.

“On your back,” said the Secretary. “I want to see your face.”

Valjean swallowed hard, turning over. He could not quite bring himself to offer a prayer to God, not when he was lying in another’s bed wearing nothing but his trousers, but the gratitude was there all the same.

The mattress dipped; Chabouillet had returned. The bed creaked as he crawled up alongside where Valjean was waiting, and then he stopped.

“You are very strong,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “But you will use that strength only as I say so, won’t you?”

There was only one correct response.

“I will,” Valjean confirmed.

“Raise your hand.”

Valjean licked his lips, slowly lifting one arm. Chabouillet took hold of his wrist and wound a length of fabric about it, knotting it securely. Valjean’s stomach plummeted, his body recognizing the possibility of restraint before he even grasped fully what was going on, and then he was aware of the Secretary pressing his hand to the headboard. The same fabric fastened Valjean’s wrist to the spindles, holding him fast. The taste of bile was immediate.

“Monsieur -”

“Hush.” Chabouillet leaned across him, reaching for his other arm. “Trust me,” he added, binding that wrist to the headboard as well.

Valjean fought to keep his breathing even; perhaps Madeleine could trust the Secretary, but Jean Valjean certainly did not. He flexed his arms, and found that the material had very little give.

“You could break free easily,” Chabouillet told him. “It is only silk. But you will choose not to, because I ask it.”

Quietly, Valjean panted. A few scraps of fabric were nothing he could not bear, if it kept Chabouillet happy. It was true, silk snapped far more readily than iron. And as he laid there, another memory stirred, of Javert bound motionless to a chair with ropes that promised, like Tantalus, something exquisite just out of reach. His lower half throbbed with confused need.

Before he could think to stop himself, Valjean asked aloud, “Do you ever tie Javert like this, Monsieur?”

For a long moment, the Secretary was still, and Valjean was terrified he had asked the wrong thing. Then Chabouillet laughed. “Sometimes,” he answered. “Why? Thinking of giving it a try?”

Valjean stammered something incoherent in response, made all the less sensible by the way the Secretary rocked their hips purposefully together.

“I suppose you want that,” Chabouillet went on. “My guidance.” He took Valjean by the chin, holding him steady, and Valjean did not need to remove the blindfold to know he was being closely scrutinized. “You want to know what he likes, how to make him beg, the noises he makes when he’s close -”

Valjean blushed furiously. “That isn’t - I didn’t -”

“There is no shame in it.” Chabouillet released his grip, sitting up. “It is only natural you would want to know. So independent, yet so desperate to be told what to do - truly, Madeleine, Javert is a delight.”

He undid the fastener on Valjean’s trousers matter-of-factly, shoving them with his drawers down past his knees. Cool air washed over Valjean’s exposed length, which was stiff and leaking for want of touch. Years of celibacy had not rid him of that, it seemed. He shivered; the heat mingled with cold was terribly distracting.

There was a pause, and then Valjean heard the unmistakable sound of Chabouillet undoing his belt. Valjean drew in a breath through his nose. Toulon had taught him what to expect: pain like fire, followed by an excruciating stretch that seemed to go on forever. It seemed, however, that Chabouillet was not through with his preparations; there was the faint pop of a stopper, followed by the scent of olive oil. It was an altogether new sensation which followed, as Chabouillet pressed one oil-landen finger against his entrance and pushed inside.

The intrusion hurt at first, but not unbearably, though Valjean still thought he might have preferred to have had it over with at once. Easier on his body this may have been, but it left the Secretary with every opportunity to stare while Valjean was pinned in place, and Valjean was certain the man must be looking his fill. Then Chabouillet pressed his finger against muscle, and Valjean jerked as the sensation went through him like electricity.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” asked the Secretary. The amusement in his voice was plain to the ear, and as he pressed down again, Valjean could only half-stifle a gasp. It was torture; it was paradise; it was enough to make Valjean think that perhaps he knew nothing at all of what men could be to each other. The oil was slippery; it clung to his thighs and turned every motion Chabouillet made into a smoother stretch, slowly but surely coaxing his body open.

As if to prove the point, Chabouillet slid a second finger in with the first, and Valjean moaned audibly. He longed for something, anything, to hold onto, but the way his hands were fettered, he could not even grasp the spindles of the bed. Instead he resorted to grabbing onto the ends of the silk ties, curling his fingers around the thin taffeta. No sooner had he done so than Chabouillet stopped.

Valjean produced a small whimper.

“Not like that,” admonished the Secretary. “You might rip the material. Release it, please.”

Shaking, Valjean pried his fingers loose of their grip, and the fabric fell back against his bare forearms, brushing light as a feather against them. There was nothing left for it but to clench his fists instead.

“Better,” Chabouillet purred. The reward came swiftly; Valjean’s nails dug into his skin as the Secretary twisted his wrist, sending jolt after jolt of agonizing pleasure through him. There would be welts left in his palms for certain.

“I prefer you like this,” said Chabouillet. He trailed his free hand through the pool of fluid beginning to collect on Valjean’s stomach, but missed completely the man’s cock, aching for having been ignored. “The Mayor of Montreuil is highly esteemed, yes, but watch how he comes apart at the touch of my hand.”

Mortified, Valjean shook his head, but his body belied him when another well-placed twist inside drew a cry from his lips.

“Shall I let you in on a little secret?” Chabouillet leaned forward, almost but not quite letting their bodies touch. “Javert is the same,” he said, and Valjean shuddered, his eyes screwed shut under the blindfold. “Oh, he is very enjoyable to have hard and fast against a wall or one’s desk, but if you want to _break_ him, as you might a horse... this is the way to do it.” Chabouillet’s fingernails scraped lightly along where they were buried, and Valjean found himself half-sobbing with want.

“M-Monsieur,” he managed. The cloth was wet against his eyelids.

“Yes?” The Secretary’s tone was both teasing and wicked, entirely aware of the effect he was having. “Something you want, Monsieur Madeleine?”

Valjean’s tongue could scarcely form the words to speak. “Please,” he gasped. “Not... enough.”

“Not enough?” Chabouillet repeated, and Valjean could just imagine the man’s eyebrows arching. “And here I thought I had been very generous.”

“Please...”

The Secretary was as collected as ever when he asked, “‘Please’, what?” His free hand traced delicately down the inside of Valjean’s thigh.

Never in his life had Valjean been so unraveled. If he had had a defense, it was gone. If anyone were to ask for his name, he did not know how he would answer.

“Anything,” he gasped. “Your hand...”

Chabouillet hummed, deliberating. Then without any further ado, he pulled his fingers free, and Valjean squirmed at the sudden emptiness.

“Please,” he said again. “Please, I...”

In the corner of Valjean’s consciousness which was still capable of thought, he knew what had to be said. It pained him, an old resentment flaring at the thought that he could belong to anyone but himself, but he had to swallow his pride, as much for his sanity as for his safety. If the Secretary were just to abandon him there, to wind him up tighter than a spring and then do nothing in resolution, it would make him a sadist, and yet Chabouillet seemed content to do exactly that unless he were persuaded otherwise.

“I want to be yours,” Valjean forced out. “Have me, Monsieur, _please_ -”

He was stopped as Chabouillet’s hands came down to grasp his shoulders, something larger than a finger pressing at him.

“You have a silver tongue,” the man whispered in his ear, satisfaction positively dripping from his voice. “Since you ask so politely, I will have you. Tomorrow you will have Javert, and every time you touch him, you will both remember where your loyalties lie.”

There was no other warning before he pushed forward, and Valjean’s hips bucked as the Secretary’s cock breached him. Between the oil and the earlier ministrations, the stretch was not so extreme as he remembered. There was some pain to it, but Valjean welcomed the feeling, anything to bring him closer to the edge. Chabouillet panted against his shoulder, at last beginning to lose some of his own composure. On instinct, Valjean clenched his muscles tighter, and Chabouillet let out a groan.

“You are a natural at this,” Chabouillet grunted, thrusting forward again.

Piece by piece, Valjean felt the world fall away around him until all that remained was the slickness of flesh upon flesh, and the rhythm that was building between them. When a particularly emphatic thrust brought them together in just the right way, Valjean cried out, biting down on his lip until he drew blood. It felt like there was liquid fire running through his veins. Chabouillet must have felt it as well, for he pushed forward harder still, Valjean’s throbbing shaft trapped between their two bodies.

“Madeleine,” the Secretary sighed against his shoulder.

“Monsieur, I’m -” Valjean could not quite make his mouth respond. All he knew was that he was  nearly there, balancing on a knife’s edge before the abyss of completion. It would take very little to push him the rest of the way.

“Not yet,” growled the Secretary, and at long last, he took Valjean in hand, his grip tight enough to ensure he would not finish.

With another wild thrust, Chabouillet bit down on the crook of Valjean’s neck, just as he shuddered and found release, buried to the hilt. Valjean felt the Secretary’s climax as intensely as he had ever felt anything before, just as he felt the scrape of the man’s teeth on his skin. For a long moment, Chabouillet was still, and the only sound was his heavy breathing.

Then, his grip loosened, and he dragged his thumb up the length of Valjean’s shaft. The stimulation was overwhelming. It hurt, it was ecstasy. In very little time at all, Valjean’s eyes rolled back in his head as he at last fell forward into surrender, coming in hot spurts over the Secretary’s hand.

In the aftermath, Valjean felt a deep sense of peace steal over him. It hardly seemed right that he should be so calm with all that had transpired, and yet it was a relief, too, to not have to wait any longer for something to give. Chabouillet had gotten his entertainment, and against all the odds, Madeleine’s disguise was secure.

There was a hand upon his cheek, and Valjean realized it was Chabouillet, tugging the blindfold loose. The fabric fell away, and Valjean blinked in the dim light of a distant candle. He could make out the silhouette of the Secretary bent over him, the hand lingering only a moment on his jaw before Chabouillet pulled back, his spent prick sliding free as he did so. The sudden emptiness was disconcerting, as was the trickle of fluid which followed. He was a mess, Valjean realized.

At the side of the bed, Chabouillet was again searching for something. He returned a minute later with the goblet in his hand; the bronze was cold against Valjean’s leg as the Secretary collected a measure of their mingled spend. Then he tugged once on each wrist, undoing the ligatures which tied Valjean to the headboard. His fingers hovered a moment on Valjean’s pulse; such was the only tenderness he showed before his expression shuttered itself, falling back into a pattern of distant respectability. The Secretary’s trousers were still undone, and his cravat was askew, but such were the only signs that he had just finished taking his pleasure.

Tossing a rag onto the mattress, Chabouillet turned and walked away from the bedside. There was a desk in the corner where he lit another candle and sat. That was the end of it; he did not look at Valjean again, even as Valjean sat up. After a moment, there came the scratching of a quill point upon parchment.

Valjean’s wrists were sore. Thin as the silk was, it had left marks. He was sore in other ways, too, and the emptiness still did not sit right at his core. Pensively, he wiped the cooling spend from his skin as best as he could before dressing himself. The first thing was his shirt, which he buttoned even before he had pulled up his pants. There was no need to take more risks than he had to.

The Secretary made no move to stop him as Valjean turned toward the stairs to go. There was only one thing left on his mind, one thing he needed to verify before the day ended. Valjean mounted the spiral staircase, and his thoughts fixated on Javert.

Finding the Inspector was not as straightforward as Valjean had expected. He had searched through much of the ground floor before his feet led him back to the library. There, he discovered Javert reading a book by the light of a lamp.

“I would never have taken you for a man who reads for leisure,” said Valjean.

Javert looked up, and closed the book. “I am not,” he said. “Leisure and idleness are to be discouraged, they cultivate poor character. But,” he added, sitting straighter in his chair, “there is merit to reading for the sake of self-improvement. I have been studying history. Did you know there have been gatherings like these since the seventeenth century?”

Valjean caught himself smiling in response. “I am glad you found your afternoon informative,” he said.

Javert cocked his head to one side. “And how was your meeting with Monsieur the Secretary?”

At that, Valjean faltered. “He told you?”

“No,” said Javert, his eyes tracing over Valjean’s mussed hair and hastily re-assembled wardrobe. “But it is apparent nevertheless. Do not be embarrassed,” he added as Valjean grew flustered. “He tends to have that effect.”

“Yes,” said Valjean. “Well.” Under the fabric of his shirt, he could feel the reddish bruise Chabouillet’s teeth had left on his skin. It did not throb like a brand, but it meant the same thing.

“Tomorrow,” the Inspector continued, “you are to go to the _salle haute_ on your own. After that, you will proceed to the adjacent chamber.”

Valjean shifted his weight. “And then...?”

“Yes,” said Javert, his expression neutral. “And then.”

“I see.” Valjean hesitated. There was much he owed it to the man to say. “Javert -”

“Apologies, Monsieur Mayor,” Javert said, standing, “but I am to see the Prefect this afternoon. I am afraid you must excuse me.”

With a short nod, Javert took his leave. Long after he was gone, Valjean stood motionless in the library. Soon it would be over and done with, but there was no number of good deeds which would be enough to strike his lies from the ledgerbook of his soul.


	6. Day the Sixth

Nay met Valjean in the hallway outside his quarters promptly at noon. There was a plain white robe folded over his arm.

“They are ready for you, Monsieur,” he said. “You must bathe first, and then I shall take you to them.”

Valjean squared his shoulders. “Lead on.”

The page took Valjean through the manor to a room of baths. Several tubs of hot water had been drawn, as evidenced by the cloud of steam which hung in the air. A blazing stove in the corner kept the room at a sweltering temperature. It seemed that fate had yet to abandon him, for the baths were deserted of others.

Nay handed the robe over to Valjean, who took it while assuring the page boy that he was quite capable of handling his bath himself. The disappointed youth went to wait outside in the corridor; with a sigh of relief, Valjean quickly performed his toilet, scars bared to a room that held no-one to see them. The water was scalding, turning his calves red as he stood knee-deep in it. A small bowl was provided to scoop the water over himself, as well as a greasy lye soap that left his skin feeling raw.

It was good to scrub himself clean, though no amount of soap seemed sufficient to wipe the stain of sin from him. Not lost on Valjean was the fact that to see the Prefecture’s rite completed would be unforgivable; Javert might welcome Madeleine’s touch, but never a convict’s. It was too late to prevent the last bit of ceremony - the ritual had all the unstoppable trajectory of a juggernaut - but perhaps once they were alone together, Valjean might convince the Inspector to reconsider how necessary their union truly was. It was the only choice he could make which would not damn him.

Stepping out of the water, Valjean dried himself ruminatively with a towel. He supposed that the white habit was for him to wear; it fit better than the saffron, and he fastened it at his waist with a cloth belt. Then he padded over to the door. Opening it, he came face to face with Nay, who was waiting with poorly concealed impatience.

“I am to take you to the _salle haute_ ,” he said. “You must say you will tell me about it afterwards, Monsieur, you have been so tight-lipped all week -”

“Let us not keep the rest waiting,” Valjean interrupted.

Ducking his head, Nay led Valjean down the passage until they were delivered into the entry hall. Turning the corner brought them to a flight of stairs, and these in turn transported them to the second story. There were the great double doors to the _salle haute_ , the manor’s private hall for closed ritual.

Nay waved Valjean along, and so it was that he approached the doors with their celestial designs on his own. For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then he firmed his resolve, and pushed his way inside.

The presence of sunlight was as disorienting as it had been the first time. Valjean found he missed it; to be outside would be one of the simplest joys of the week’s ending. The fountain ran with a gentle trickle of water, but there was no goblet on that occasion, and so Valjean went ahead to the stairs below the colonnade.

Arriving in the hall itself, Valjean found it empty but for the small altar and M. Gisquet, who stood beside it. Valjean looked around for some sign of Javert or the Secretary, but they both were absent. Uncertainly, he approached the altar.

Arrayed again in burgundy robes, Gisquet wordlessly swept his hand at the collection of objects set forth upon the table. One was the gold chalice, and Valjean was nauseated to see that the inside was still speckled with crimson droplets. Beside it was a matching goblet; Valjean had his suspicions as to what that contained, but he made a concerted effort not to dwell on it. From among the rest of the tools, Gisquet selected the velvet book, and, finding within the page he sought, raised it.

“Since by your diligence, and the Secretary’s good word, you are brought here in good faith, it is right this meeting should be joyfully consecrated.” Gisquet raised the goblet in the book’s place. With an air of great concentration, he poured its fluids into the chalice, and Valjean strove to ignore his queasiness. “This tincture represents the vows you have made here. It will be folded into the gold of a new Mayor’s chain and presented to you as a reminder of your fiduciary duty to this government.” Conversationally, the young politician added, “I would that I did not always have to resort to reading from the script, but alas, I am no poet.”

Valjean nodded without speaking. He did not look at the chalice or its unholy mixture.

“Now,” said Gisquet, returning the goblet to the altar, “you have only one room before you.” He gestured at the little door in back of the chamber. “And then your journey will be at an end, and you may return home.” His eyes narrowed as he went on, “But I sense there is something disingenuous about you, a hidden darkness seated in your breast.”

Valjean felt his heart skip a beat. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gisquet said emphatically. “I fear it is true - there is unworthiness here, a degenerate spirit!”

His stomach plummeting like a stone, face white as a sheet, Valjean’s thoughts spun in a turbulent maelstrom. Somehow, Gisquet had pieced it together, had deduced that Madeleine was a falsehood. How had he done it? Had he told anyone? Was this now a test, to frighten him into revealing himself?

“Go,” ordered Gisquet, pointing an accusatory finger at the small door, and Valjean fled. He did not care what he looked like, only knew he needed to be gone. It was a trap after all, and he had fallen into it despite his best efforts.

His hand slipped on the knob as Valjean bolted through the doorway into the passage beyond. Shutting it firmly behind him, Valjean took a moment to catch his breath and get his bearings. The passage was a narrow one; directly opposite him was another door, plain wooden planks secured together with strips of iron. From both ends of the corridor, slitted windows admitted light and outside air. Surely if he searched, there would be a staircase, or a window large enough to squeeze his way through. He did not know where he would go upon making his escape; not back to Montreuil-sur-Mer, that was certain.

His capacity for rational thought in shambles, Valjean was prepared to make his way out of the _manoir_ by whatever means necessary. He had not taken a single step, however, before the door across the hall was pulled open from the inside. There stood the Secretary, and beside him, Javert, dressed in a white habit similar to Valjean’s own. Valjean froze.

“Ah, Monsieur Madeleine, there you are.” Chabouillet’s expression was one of sublime satisfaction. “I was just wondering when you would get here. You had to go to the baths, I suppose.”

Too dumbfounded to speak, Valjean could only gape slightly. There was no leaving, not with the both of them as witnesses.

“But then, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” the Secretary laughed. “Henri must really have acted his part.”

“He... he said...” Valjean stammered, trying to think of a good excuse.

“Trust me, I’ve heard it,” Chabouillet said dismissively. “Fire and brimstone, a bit of script to keep us humble. It can be a bit jarring for some, and Henri does excel at creating melodrama. Still, I am surprised you of all people were so affected.”

The knot in Valjean’s stomach loosened a degree. If Gisquet’s words were only part of the pageantry, then perhaps things were not so dire as they seemed. He strove to gather himself.

Chuckling nervously, Valjean replied, “I admit I was rather startled. I couldn’t fathom what I had done wrong.”

Beside where the Secretary occupied the doorway, Javert hovered. His mouth was red and swollen, and a smear of liquid on his cheek left little doubt as to what he and the Secretary had done behind closed doors. Nevertheless, there was something uncanny in the way he looked at the Mayor, a vague frown pursing his lips, which suggested that all was not yet settled in his mind. As Valjean’s gaze met his, the Inspector crossed his arms and looked away.

“You are here now,” said Chabouillet to Valjean, “and I am leaving. Javert -” He turned, raising his hand to the line of the Inspector’s jaw. As he spoke, his thumb dragged over the telltale smudge, wiping it clean. “I expect you to show Mayor Madeleine the same devotion in your service that you would me, is that clear?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Javert said hoarsely.

Moving out into the hallway, the Secretary paused in front of Valjean and added, “Take all the time you like. The room is yours.”

He rested his hand on Valjean’s shoulder, the weight remaining even after he was through speaking, and Valjean knew it to be a reminder that Madeleine was made part of his collection, another pawn in a game of power he could scarcely understand. Madeleine was glad for it, even if Valjean might have wished to rebuff the touch. The Secretary’s freehold granted Madeleine a legitimacy he lacked, one which even Inspector Javert would not challenge. It was all very well, but it did nothing to prevent his mouth going dry as Chabouillet vanished into the _salle haute_ , leaving him and Javert alone together.

Valjean cleared his throat as Javert silently sidestepped, permitting him entrance through the door opening. The room beyond was a chamber much like his own, only having a single larger bedstead instead of two, and a desk against the wall in place of a dresser. The chair was pulled out, left suggestively in the middle of the floor. Perhaps noticing the way the Mayor’s attention fixed upon it, Javert promptly took hold of it and returned the chair to its place. Then, facing away towards the desk, the Inspector asked, “Unless... you were planning to make use of it?”

Valjean paused, halfway through shutting the door. Unbidden, the image rose in his head of the Secretary seated in the chair and Javert kneeling on the floor, the smear of fluid on his cheek. His chest grew heated.

“No,” he said, the door closing. “That will not be necessary.” Desiring to take no further chances, Valjean turned the lock with a click.

When he faced back into the room, he found the Inspector standing at attention. There was a tension to his posture, which Valjean was certain was echoed in his own.

“Monsieur Mayor,” Javert said, bending at the waist. “I am at your disposal.” He did not raise out of the bow, but remained bent over. A tremor went through Valjean at that. He wished it was only due to discomfort, but a now-familiar heat in his stomach told him it was not.

“Inspector,” Valjean returned. He meant to continue with, ‘Stand up, please’, but the words caught in his throat and he swallowed instead. Already his traitorous body was responding to something he did not, _could_ not, want, making it that much the harder to think clearly. He had never wanted to wield such power over another, Javert least of all, but it seemed he had been granted it nevertheless.

“Javert,” he tried again, “we should - are you certain about this?”

Looking resolutely at the floor, the Inspector replied, “I have been committed to this course of action ever since the Secretary’s invitation first arrived.”

“Yes, but...” said Valjean, beginning to pace in his agitation. “What I mean to say is, we do not have to.”

At that, Javert’s hands clenched at his sides. “If I have dissatisfied you in some way -”

Valjean shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I only meant that I would not want you later to regret having...” He trailed off as the Inspector did not move. “Javert, you may stand.”

Straightening, the Inspector looked at him, a crease appearing where his eyebrows drew together. “Regret?” he repeated. “Monsieur, it is my duty to be of service. I do not regret doing my duty.”

“And I will not insult you by saying that you should.” In spite of himself, Valjean took a step closer. “But we scarcely know one another. I would not have you go through with this out of a sense of... obligation.”

The Inspector surveyed him for a long moment, thinking. “You believe this is merely an assignment to me.” He advanced one step of his own. Another would bring him close enough to touch. “It is true, Monsieur, that I will complete any task a superior assigns, no matter how dull or menial I might find it. My personal feelings do not reflect on my work. But,” and he seemed to struggle a moment with what he wanted to say, “I would be less than truthful if I said there was no pleasure for me in this.”

Valjean began to raise his hand, and then lowered it again. His self-restraint was not bolstered by that speech; for all that he was strong, he was weak in this. Working his jaw, Valjean tried to focus on what had to be said, for both their sakes. That was when Javert closed the gap between them, until they stood only a hair’s breadth apart.

The Inspector’s voice when he spoke was low. “If you doubt me, you have only to look down to see I speak the truth.”

Valjean’s gaze skittered downwards and back. Sure enough, the slight tent in the front of Javert’s cotton robe told him all he needed to know about the man’s state of physical affection. Another tremor passed through him; he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and there was no telling whether the ground would hold under his feet.

Against his better judgement, Valjean raised his hand again, coming to rest it lightly upon Javert’s shoulder. The other reached higher, settling in the man’s hair. Javert’s eyes were half-lidded, as submissive as Valjean had ever seen him, the last vestiges of his suspicion driven out by the orders of his own patron. There was nothing Valjean could do which Javert would dare to question, not even if he tied him to the bed and returned the favor for nineteen years under the lash with the back of his hand.

No, Valjean reflected, tugging loose the ribbon which held back Javert’s queue. If it had to be done, it did not have to be done hatefully. And it did have to be done, he added to himself as he pulled the Inspector’s face down closer to his own. It was clear there was no dissuading Javert, not without giving him good reason, and what reason was there save that he was a recidivist galley slave? The man would surely despise him if he knew.

It was neither right nor appropriate to continue his charade; for a moment, the notion of confessing crossed his mind. The trouble was, he knew how it would end. Should he give his name - his Christian name, not his alias - the foreign combination of trepidation and arousal on Javert’s face would disappear, replaced by nothing but cold hatred. Then he would be rearrested, and any use Madeleine might have possessed would be stripped from him. There would be no more schools, no more factories. Montreuil-sur-Mer and her people would suffer, and he himself would either go to the guillotine or be left to rot in prison. There was little that was right in that, either, even if it was honest.

Then Javert’s lips met his own, and Valjean lost whatever resolve he had remaining to him. There was bitterness still on Javert’s tongue, but his mouth was surprisingly soft, pliant and yielding as Valjean guided the kiss, his fingers twisted through the Inspector’s long hair. He was human, Valjean realized with a start, not a wolfhound but a man like any other. Javert’s whiskers scraped along his cheek, and Valjean made a sound low in his throat.

Snaking his arm around the Inspector’s waist, Valjean pulled them tighter together, until he felt the press of the man’s erection through their robes. Between his legs, his own prick was stiffening, an insistent weight against his thigh that he was certain Javert could feel as well. Almost clumsy in his hesitancy, Javert put his hands on the Mayor’s waist, tipping his head to the side so that Valjean could kiss him better.

Valjean was aware of two things: the slide of his tongue between Javert’s teeth, and the heat coiling in his gut. He wanted to shove the Inspector up against the wall, or onto the mattress, or even to simply push him to the floor and waste no more time on clothes or pretense or secrets. He did none of those things. Instead, he mumbled, “Javert,” into the man’s mouth, his leg forcing its way between the man’s thighs until the Inspector was clutching helplessly at fistfuls of his habit.

As their bodies rocked together, a shudder seemed to take possession of Javert. It came upon him like a tidal wave, self-doubt shaking him to pieces even as he came apart at the Mayor’s touch. Then with what appeared like a conscious effort of will, he went still and limp in Valjean’s arms.

“Monsieur Madeleine,” he murmured breathlessly.

The Mayor’s response was to put his mouth to the pulse point below the Inspector’s jaw.

Javert trembled. It was nearly imperceptible, but Valjean could not fail to notice, not when they were so closely intertwined. Even as he was unsure what drove him to do it, Valjean loosened his grip on the man’s hair, resting a hand gently on his back instead. For a moment, the Inspector leaned his forehead against his Mayor’s shoulder to restore his composure, and it was nearly an embrace as lovers might share.

When Javert stood upright, it was without resistance. “Monsieur Madeleine,” he said again, his breath hot against Valjean’s ear. Turning his head, Valjean caught the Inspector’s mouth once more, an act which Javert indulged in readily. “You have my loyalty -” His tongue slid across Valjean’s. “You have my fidelity -” His arms slipped down to Valjean’s backside, fingers gripping at muscled flesh. “Please, Monsieur,” he whispered, voice going ragged in Valjean’s ear. “I am so...”

Obligingly, Valjean released his hold, sliding his hand instead between them to feel out the bulge under Javert’s habit; his prick was hot even through the rough fabric, and Valjean’s fingers squeezed around it. Javert groaned quietly, a damp stain spreading through the cotton.

Entranced, Valjean pulled free the belt around the Inspector’s waist, letting it fall to the floor. Then he rucked up the fabric of the man’s robe, tugging it over his waist and exposing the full, ruddy member beneath. Impulsively, Valjean wrapped his fingers around the hot flesh and slid them down the length of it. The reaction was immediate; Javert groaned again, louder, and his whole person seemed to shiver, precome spilling over Valjean’s fingers and dripping onto the floor.

“Monsieur,” Javert panted, “if you continue, I won’t... I shall...”

“Wait,” Valjean replied, finding himself equally winded. “Wait.”

He had not intended to be so short, but the space in his head for drafting sentences was devoting itself to other matters, and at any rate, Javert seemed to know what was required; as Valjean stepped away, wiping his hand clean on his own garments, the Inspector pulled his robe over the top of his head and bared himself in a single motion.

The Mayor’s eyes lingered, not only on the more virile parts of the man’s anatomy, but also on the scar from a knife wound near Javert’s collarbone, and another over his liver, which Valjean knew for a fact had come about as the result of a convict’s escape attempt gone awry. Most incredible to him was the fact that Javert made no effort to hide any of it, not even as he turned and moved to climb onto the bed. Of course, the Inspector was of the police, and so he could be proud of, or at least indifferent to, his old injuries. A galley slave was afforded no such option.

Before he could dwell on it any longer, Valjean turned his attention to the little bedside table. A familiar-looking goblet sat on top of it, but that was not his concern just then. His experience with the Secretary left Valjean with a hunch as to what he would find when he pulled open the drawer, and just as he had guessed, he had no sooner done so than he discovered a small phial of oil among a handful of other accessories. For some of them, the intended use was obvious; for others, less so. All of it but the oil he ignored. Pocketing the bottle, he rounded to face the bed.

Javert lay on his back, legs drawn up. He stared at the ceiling, but as Valjean approached, the man turned his head. His expression was unguarded, and for a single second, Valjean faltered. Then he shook himself and crawled onto the mattress, leaning over Javert a moment.

“This is what you want?” he asked, stroking lightly along the inside of Javert’s thigh.

The man’s eyes fluttered closed. “Yes,” he answered back, and his legs shifted farther apart.

Valjean pressed his lips to the man’s knee. The skin was warm against his mouth, and Valjean detected a slight hitch in Javert’s breathing. It was a betrayal to touch him so, knowing perfectly well it would never under any other circumstance be allowed, and Valjean pressed another kiss farther down in tacit apology.

Javert lifted his head off the pillow. “Is something the matter?”

Starting, Valjean stammered, “No, nothing,” rearranging his expression into something less wistful.

The Inspector studied him thoughtfully. “Come here,” he said after a moment.

Timidly, Valjean bent down closer, bracing himself on one arm. It was difficult not to think about how he must look with the Inspector spread out beneath him, and a blush spread up his cheeks. Javert naked was a thing that astonished, more for the novelty of it than any particular beauty. Willowy legs; knobby knees; a narrow frame; Javert was a patchwork quilt of contradictions, an impression only heightened by the faint traces of vulnerability in his usually severe features. Valjean could count each rib embossing the skin of his chest. When their faces were near to touching, he paused.

Javert raised his hand; it hovered tentatively in the air before at last coming to rest on the back of Valjean’s neck. Valjean held still, but there was no animosity in the touch, merely an uncertain sort of daring. When the Mayor did not offer protest, Javert hooked a finger through the collar of Valjean’s robe and tugged downwards, exposing the reddish mark the Secretary’s mouth had left on his neck the day before. Unerringly, Javert found it with his fingers, tracing the outline of the bruise with his thumb. As easily as he found it, Valjean could only wonder how many times the Inspector had sported such a mark himself.

Javert’s fingers tightened, the material of the robe bunching in his fist, and Valjean inhaled sharply. The cotton was thin, a delicate cloth that would not be beyond the Inspector’s abilities to tear if he so wished. A well-placed rip would expose unmistakably the years of Toulon’s abuse; if that were to happen, Valjean did not know what he would do.

Their eyes locked. The shades of doubt were returned to Javert’s face, and it was plain that he wrestled with himself as Valjean gazed back, a nearly bittersweet smile turning the Mayor’s lips. He could knock Javert’s hand from his clothes, pin the man’s wrists above his head, and the Inspector would permit it, but he waited, motionless. He would leave that decision to Javert, to choose to expose him, or to choose not to.

Javert licked his lips, and Valjean steeled himself. That was when the hand released his collar, sliding back up his neck as if nothing had happened. A flicker of resignation in the man’s expression was the only sign that he knew what he was surrendering to, and then they were kissing again, the Inspector’s fingers making a new home in the Mayor’s dark curls. With a shift of his hips, Valjean’s knee parted the Inspector’s thighs. There was something desperate in the way Javert kissed him, reckless and frenzied. His hands twisted in the Mayor’s hair with abandon, and Valjean heard the silent plea in it: _Please, be what you say that you are._

Valjean’s thoughts were scattered; he wanted it, he realized, to be Madeleine forever, to be a benefactor to his people, to have the single, untarnished memory of Javert insisting he have his way with him. His teeth grazed Javert’s lower lip, and when that elicited a muffled groan, he dipped his head lower, pressing his mouth to the Inspector’s collarbone. Nipping, teasing bites left a trail of wet, ephemeral marks, and Javert arched his back against the pressure Valjean’s knee provided.

He could do it, Valjean thought. He could be Madeleine. And Madeleine was compassionate; Madeleine would give the Inspector anything he wanted. In a jerky, distracted motion, Valjean plunged his hand into the pocket of his robe, fingers scrabbling for the bottle of oil. The stopper fell out, dribbling a mess across the mattress, but Valjean did not care; there was enough of it on his hands to do the job.

Javert, recognizing the bottle for what it was, obliged him by releasing his hold and twisting his fingers in the sheets instead. The oil made things infinitely easier; Valjean’s motions were unpracticed, but between the lubricant and Javert’s own eagerness, the preparation was not difficult as Valjean had feared. A crook of his fingers, and Javert had to bite down on his knuckles to prevent the shattered cry which threatened to fall from his lips.

Muscle yielded to the Mayor’s touch, the olive oil doing its duty with slick precision. With every passing second, Valjean’s digits worked deeper inside, engulfed by wet heat. At each scissor of his fingers, Javert had to smother a gasp, and each time he was a little less successful. Something the Secretary had said crossing his mind, Valjean bent closer and skimmed his mouth lightly over Javert’s hip bone. The noise the Inspector made was in a much higher register than Valjean could ever remember hearing.

“Monsieur -” Javert quaked, breathing in uneven gulps of air. “- Mayor.”

Valjean shuddered in response, hating himself for the tingle of pleasure the title evoked. He laved a line with his tongue through the salt towards Javert’s midsection, feeling the curve of the man’s spine as he writhed, defenseless against the press of calloused fingertips inside him.

At a particularly clever use of the Mayor’s knuckles, Javert made a strangled sound. “ _Please_ ,” he rasped. “Oh - _God_ \- Monsieur, please.”

It should not have felt so good to have the Inspector begging him like that, but there was no denying that it fanned in Valjean a feeling which was all-consuming; it had come clear to him what it was that made Chabouillet so very possessive. With a lewd pop, Valjean pulled his fingers free. Chest heaving, Javert rolled his head to one side, his jaw slack and eyes glassy.

Wiping himself clean on the covers, Valjean placed his hands on Javert’s hips. Between them was the proof of Javert’s own arousal, his prick flushed and glistening against his bare stomach. Valjean tightened his grip as he shifted into position, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. There was a beat, the enormity of what he was about to do setting in with a surreal clarity.

Lifting his head, Valjean searched the Inspector’s face without knowing what he was looking for. The man’s eyes were closed, the cords of his neck standing out in relief as he swallowed.

“You want this?” Valjean asked.

“Do it,” Javert growled, gripping at the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Screwing his eyes shut, Valjean sank forward, the whimper that escaped Javert’s lips sending a pulse of fire through his shaft. The slow slip inside was like nothing he had ever experienced. It was much different to be the one in control, to feel Javert around him like a furnace, his body stretched taut and trembling. Then Valjean pulled back, and Javert gasped audibly.

Yes, Valjean thought as he pushed back inside, he could be Madeleine. As uneven as his thrusts were, the pace more awkward to set than he anticipated, it did not seem to matter; Javert was hanging on the edge, fighting a losing battle to remain in control.

“Fuck,” Javert said, and it sounded more like a prayer than like an obscenity. “Monsieur, _please_ -”

‘Monsieur’. He would not lose that. He would not go back to the way things were. Valjean thrust harder, and Javert forgot to stifle his cry. Valjean could feel himself disappearing, melting back into the haze of the person he wished that he was, and in his ecstasy, Madeleine took Javert in hand, stroking his shaft in time to the same rhythm.

“Monsieur -” Javert gasped, and that was all the warning he gave before he came, seed spilling in a sticky torrent into the Mayor’s hand and over his stomach.

The sight of Javert undone, thoroughly debauched, and by his own doing, was enough to finish Madeleine as well; climax struck him like an ocean wave, and he shook with the effort of holding still as he emptied himself, his claim made, Mayor and his Inspector united as one. At long last, Javert was conquered.

The white fog of release was slow to leave him. When his eyes opened once more, he gazed down at the mess they had made wonderingly. There was a brass goblet on the night stand which would later require a sordid offering, but that was something which could wait.

The Mayor pulled out with reluctance, his prick softening. Javert lay panting, eyes still shut. Unwilling to let the moment of surrender disappear, Madeleine bent forward to kiss the man slowly, lazily on the lips, and Javert reciprocated, his tongue tracing the salt of their mingled sweat.

As he kissed him, the Mayor smiled. It had worked out for the best after all; he had even been given the unexpected boon of Javert's loyalty. It was time he buried Valjean; Madeleine was who he intended to be.


	7. Day the Seventh

Daybreak found a pair of men standing in the _salle basse_ , their luggage resting on the flagstone tiles. M. Madeleine tugged the wrinkles from his waistcoat, staring out the open door toward the road. Soon, the fiacre would arrive to bear them back to Montreuil-sur-Mer, and the whole nightmarish week would be over. He breathed deeply. Outside, the air smelled of oncoming rain. The streets of Montreuil would be populated by the poor and destitute, soaked to the skin and hungry. There would be many hands outstretched when he went to distribute alms.

Behind him, Inspector Javert looked straight ahead at the wall, waiting patiently. The man had not spoken a word all morning, and had merely nodded in response to Madeleine’s greeting. The Mayor was beginning to wish he would say something, anything, but Javert was taciturn by nature, and after a departure the day before which had been almost bashful, it was harder to make conversation.

At the sound of a cough, Madeleine turned around. In the portal to the corridor was the Secretary, clearing his throat.

“You’ll be off, then,” he said. It was not a question, but Madeleine answered.

“As soon as the carriage arrives.”

Chabouillet seemed unsurprised. “Travel will be slow,” he said, “In the rain. It is good you are leaving as early as you are, if you wish to be back by nightfall.”

Madeleine nodded. “That was my thinking.”

“Javert,” said the Secretary. “I will be expecting your monthly report in two weeks’ time.”

The Inspector bowed. “Yes, Monsieur.”

The smile Chabouillet gave Javert was impersonal. “Monsieur Mayor,” he went on without taking his eyes from Javert’s face, “I am certain the Inspector will keep me well-informed, but please write should you ever need anything.”

“You are too kind,” Madeleine replied, inclining his head. He did not acknowledge the unspoken threat; whether the Secretary knew it or not, Javert’s loyalty was divided now. He gave Chabouillet a smile of his own, just as noise from the drive alerted him to the arrival of the fiacre. “That is our cue to leave, I’m afraid.”

Madeleine made no move to intervene as Javert hefted both the Mayor’s luggage and his own. Instead, he gave the Secretary a pleasant wave, a gesture which Chabouillet returned. He could feel the man’s eyes boring into the back of his head as he turned to go, but strangely, it caused him no consternation. Perhaps he had learned something of how the game was played, after all.

The Inspector stowed the luggage in back of the carriage as Madeleine climbed up into the car. Only when he was safely ensconced inside did he allow himself a single, audible sigh of relief. Then Javert joined him, sliding into the seat opposite, and Madeleine was composed again.

They passed the journey quietly, though without the hostility which had underwritten their last ride in a fiacre. For much of the way, Madeleine watched the rain through the window as it shrouded the world behind sheets of grey. There was so much work he had to do; Sister Simplice had spoken of the need for a new hospital, and Madeleine had promised to fund it. As the carriage rolled on, leaving muddy ruts in its wake, he began to draft plans for how it could be made a reality.

Gradually, Madeleine felt the mantle which was Monsieur the Mayor settle more comfortably around his shoulders. Every once in a while, he would look up and find Javert looking back. At those times, Madeleine would offer a small smile, and Javert would nod solemnly, the lines around his eyes softening.

True to the Secretary’s prediction, travel was slow-going in that weather, and so it was dark when they arrived at last in Montreuil-sur-Mer. The lamps were lit, casting a hazy yellow glow over the wet pavement, and as the fiacre trundled to a stop in front of the Mairie, Madeleine pulled his coat more closely around him against the rain.

“Inspector,” he said, donning his hat. He exited the car and went around to retrieve his belongings, only to find that Javert was already tugging the suitcase loose from its straps.

“I am quite capable, Javert,” Madeleine told him. “You needn’t -”

“It is not appropriate that Monsieur Mayor should carry his own bag,” the Inspector replied calmly. “You will allow me.”

Madeleine did not protest any further as Javert carried the suitcase up the steps to the Mairie. Instead, he paid the driver what he was due, and turned to follow his Inspector up the stairs. With a grunt, Javert set the suitcase down beside the door. Coming up behind him, the Mayor rested a hand on the man’s elbow. Javert looked up, a mote of mild incredulity in his eyes.

“Monsieur?”

“Thank you,” Madeleine said warmly. “Have a good evening, Inspector.”

Javert clasped his hands in front of him. “On Friday, I shall have to give you my report.”

For a fraction of a second, Madeleine was caught off guard. “Very well,” he said after a moment. “I shall be at my office in the factory.”

“Understood. I will arrive promptly at five o’clock.” Javert vacillated on the step, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as though he were going to say something else. In the end, all that came out was, “Goodnight, Monsieur Mayor.”

Madeleine blinked. “Goodnight,” he said.

The Inspector gave a short bow, adjusted his top hat, and took his leave. Madeleine watched as he disappeared into the dark, the man’s silhouette like a black crow against the lamplight. Then Madeleine was alone, his rooms above the Mairie as empty as the street.

It was done, his trial finished. He was free of Monsieur the Secretary, and free of Javert’s suspicion. All that was left was to commit M. Madeleine to doing the good his position allowed, and in time, perhaps even his enduring feelings of guilt would leave him.

He could get on with the business of forgetting; it would be best for everyone that he did not dwell on what had taken place. Some matters did not bear thinking about, lest they repeat themselves. It was over and done with, and he told himself he was glad of it.


	8. Epilogue: What Followed After

The office was silent but for the ticking of a clock and the patter of rain; the deluge had continued all week without subsiding once. Upon the oak desk was a letter, half-finished, while the pen beside it dripped ink steadily into a spreading black puddle. Next to the letter was a gold chain, its new links shining in the candlelight where they lay half-exposed amidst crepe wrappings.

“Monsieur Mayor.”

Madeleine bit down hard on the inside of his cheek so as to not give himself away. Inspector Javert’s weekly report had taken a bizarre turn, and he was unprepared to deal with the ramifications. He looked down at the man kneeling in front of his chair, and he swallowed.

“I told you, Javert, it was enough that you delivered the Secretary’s gift.” Javert’s head was bowed, such that Madeleine could see the dull flush creeping up the back of his neck. “For you to offer that is... generous, but it is your service as Inspector to the Police which I value. You need do nothing else but deliver your report.”

Javert did not look up as he replied, “I know my duty, Monsieur. Understand, the Prefecture has certain expectations, and my patron will want to know I have fulfilled them.”

Madeleine wavered, and Valjean flickered dangerously close to the surface. The Inspector’s proposal was vulgar. It was degrading. It was... His cravat was tied too tight. Madeleine tugged at it as he deliberated. There was no pretending his skin had not prickled with heat the moment Javert walked into the room, nor could Madeleine lie to himself about the man in the dreams which had plagued him of late. The face he might mistake, but never the eyes. The eyes he knew well, and they were the same as the ones which even now were lowered, gazing at the floor between them.

“Well,” the Mayor said eventually. “I should hate for you to be disciplined on my account.”

Javert lifted his head. The color was rising in his cheeks, but his voice was measured as he said, “You will not have cause to regret it - I am told I have a talent for this.” Touching a hand lightly to the inside of the Mayor’s knee, he added a soft, “Thank you, Monsieur,” and Madeleine cursed the shiver that ran through him at it.

Turning away, the Mayor was intent on looking anywhere else as he felt a hand undo the button of his trousers. The cold air struck him like a blow, and the last coherent thought he had was to wonder for how much longer he would have to endure such temptation, after all.


End file.
